


Given Unsought Is Better

by lobstergirl



Series: Of Fur and Feathers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, BAMF John Watson, Bonding of Mind and Spirit, M/M, Mycroft Plays the Piano, Silver Fox Lestrade, major BAMF Mycroft Holmes, mystrade, werefox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Urban Fantasy AU in which DI Greg Lestrade actually is a silver fox, at least at times, and in which Mycroft Holmes reveals power beyond his minor post in the British Government and comes to accept that caring is not necessarily a disadvantage, and sometimes, hearts don't end up broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alyxpoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/gifts), [starrysummernights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Рождающаяся без исканий — еще лучше](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710431) by [Military_Intelligence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Military_Intelligence/pseuds/Military_Intelligence)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Рождающаяся без исканий — еще лучше.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741948) by [n1a1u](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n1a1u/pseuds/n1a1u)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Given Unsought Is Better 情到浓时](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261683) by [Ivylui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivylui/pseuds/Ivylui)
  * Inspired by [An Act Too Often Neglected](https://archiveofourown.org/works/328478) by [Eva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva). 



> This is my first attempt at creative writing in over 25 years, and I'm giving this to starrysummernights whose amazing stories have opened this wonderfully insane world of Johnlock and Mystrade for me, and to alyxpoe who has allowed me to be part of her universe. It's because of her generosity that my own creative channels have blasted open after all this time. Grateful doesn't even begin to cover it. Seriously, ladies, you are _amazing_.

The Fox stopped and listened, ears pricking up.  He had been walking for a long time, busy reconnecting with his neighbourhood and exploring new grounds.  It had been a long time since he last Shifted, and he had almost forgotten how much he enjoyed being on his nightly tours, seeing his city through his sharp Fox eyes, hearing sounds his human ears couldn’t pick up, reading messages sent via an endless stream of smells, ah, wondrous smells, beautiful smells, repellent smells, intoxicating smells…

Tonight, his curiosity had taken him to one of London’s most exclusive areas, and he was enjoying his nightly sightseeing and smelling tour.  He had just begun to wonder whether or not to turn around and head back home as he knew the next day was going to be another long one, when the soft sounds of an expertly played piano reached his ears.  He wasn’t necessarily a connoisseur when it came to classical music, but he recognized beauty when he encountered it, and whoever was playing the piano knew what he or she was doing, and was doing it well.

The Fox decided it was not time to go home just yet, and began making his way towards the music.  This particular house seemed even more guarded than the others he had passed but foxes weren’t anything if not cunning, and he was not just any fox.  He spotted the CCTV cameras, albeit well hidden, so he stayed in the shadows and out of reach, experience and training coming in handy, and soon he found what he was looking for – the smallest of holes in the well-groomed hedgerow, not blocked by wall or wire.  He pressed himself close to the ground and began shuffling through.  His fur was going to be a mess but right now, it was the least of his worries.  He had to get to the music.

A little while later he sat cowered under one of the hydrangeas and revelled in the lovely sounds washing over him, notes dancing through the summer night like crystal droplets, bright, translucent, sparkling.  The Fox closed his eyes and allowed his body to relax a little, settling in more comfortably, curling his tail around his body, head resting on his forearms. As he let his ever-wary mind relax along with his body, he started picking something else up – something he hadn’t felt before, had only ever heard of, had certainly not expected here.

_Home._  
 _Safe._  
 _Haven._

His eyes snapped open, and for a fraction of a moment the music seemed to stutter, notes stumbling.  As quickly as the disturbance had occurred, it vanished, and the music continued, changing into something softer and even more soothing, and the Fox allowed himself the luxury of relaxing further.

_Home._  
 _Safe._  
 _Haven._

It had been such a long time since he had felt home and safe, let alone have anything close to a haven.  Susan had provided him with a home to run back to when he needed to Shift and, well, do some running.  He and she had never Bonded, though, she wasn’t an Anchor to begin with, and had never volunteered to offer more than what was absolutely necessary, never wanted to be part of this, this side of him she never understood, never wanted to understand, had even been nervous about. His ears twitched as he thought back on their countless arguments. “Why do you have to do it anyway? Can’t you just not Shift?” As if it was a bad habit, like smoking or something. She never understood he _had_ to Shift, that it was a necessity, not an eccentric way to… express himself, and that not Shifting would result in severe damage to both his body and mind. She had been attracted to the man, and had refused to accept the Fox, although he had not exactly kept it a secret, had told her about it as soon as things had got more serious between them.

As his career progressed, his work schedule became more and more insane and he stubbornly kept refusing to not Shift, she began turning elsewhere for understanding, for a life more normal by common standards, and one day he found himself in a small flat, by himself, not a home worth mentioning, and lonely, so lonely.

His eyes closed again, and never mind the unknown surroundings, and never mind he should be more alert, and never mind… he was so very tired, the music breathed over him like the most tender of caresses, and the Fox drifted off into slumber.

He never heard the French window being carefully, oh so carefully pushed open, just a little, and never saw the tall, elegant man step outside, trained and all-seeing eyes scanning the area and finally spotting the silver fox in his hiding place under the hydrangea, peacefully asleep and blissfully ignorant.  He never saw the elegant eyebrow arch up, didn’t hear the low chuckle, but it was entirely possible his mind picked up the message of _Home. Safe. Haven. You’re welcome here, friend_. that was Projected as the man lowered his shield ever so slightly.

As silently as he had stepped outside, the man turned around and went back inside.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade shifted uneasily as he watched Sherlock Holmes do his usual dance about the crime scene.  Although he had known the man for years and had had plenty of time getting used to him and his ways, he still found his unholy glee at crime scenes slightly disconcerting.  It had considerably improved since John Watson had entered his life, and Sherlock seemed genuinely concerned whenever the short doctor and ex-soldier gave him one of his Looks, or even worse, the “bit not good” treatment, but still – there was no denying he was enjoying himself a bit too much.  Thankfully, Anderson wasn’t around, having taken a few days off, something to do with family affairs of sorts, and apparently Gordon hadn’t done anything too revoltingly wrong, well, at least he hadn’t been ordered to stop thinking yet.

Lestrade stepped aside to exchange a few quiet sentences with Donovan who had come up with an eye witness report, when he noticed Sherlock stopping in mid-movement, spine very rigid and pointedly not turning around.  Sherlock freezing like that usually meant one thing, one thing alone, and so Lestrade closed his eyes and silently counted to ten before turning around to glare at the newcomer.  Before he could open his mouth, however, the consulting detective’s voice boomed across the room.

“If it isn’t my big brother descending from up high to grace us with his shining presence, and please don’t tell us you _happened_ to be in the neighbourhood.”

Mycroft Holmes sighed. “As it happens, I did have matters to attend close by, and decided upon a whim to take the opportunity to see how you are faring, brother dear.”

“Touching. You’ve seen, I’m well, good riddance and please do go about your merry ways. I’m sure there’s a war to stop somewhere.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Lestrade cut in. “As fascinating as your verbal duelling might be, may I remind you that this is a crime scene and some of us have an obligation to fulfil, maybe not of national importance, but important nevertheless. I will have none of this right now.”

Sherlock scowled at him, but decided to not take it any further.  For now. 

Lestrade turned towards Mycroft Holmes, only to find himself scrutinized – and possibly deduced – by a pair of cool eyes.  He tried to not feel too uncomfortable because as different as the Holmes brothers might be, in that respect they were frighteningly similar.  Nothing escaped their eyes, and Lestrade had often thought the older Holmes brother was even better at this particular game than the younger one.  So he let himself be scanned but this time, there was something else, something odd and unexpected… something tentatively reaching out to him.  Lestrade’s eyes shifted to Sherlock Holmes who was kneeling next to the body, sniffing the victim’s sleeves, talking rapidly and excitedly to John, not paying any attention to anything else.  Or so he hoped.

A faint echo of _Home. Safe._ drifted towards him, and he found himself openly staring at Mycroft Holmes whose lips twitched ever so slightly.  Amused blue-and-grey eyes met bewildered brown ones, and the older Holmes stepped closer and into Lestrade’s personal space.  In a very low voice he murmured, “Really, Detective Inspector, a silver fox? Allow me to express my surprise.”  Another quick look, a barely visible smile and an elegantly raised eyebrow.  “And yet, how perfectly appropriate.”

Mycroft stepped back, all business again, and conversationally remarked, “Dear me, must dash, shame, really. Good afternoon, Sherlock – please do call Mummy –, good afternoon, Dr. Watson.”  As he sauntered off, ever present umbrella swinging, he casually said, “And Detective Inspector – I meant it. Any time. You’re welcome.”

Then he was gone, and Lestrade let out a slow breath.  John shot him a puzzled look. “What was that all about?”  Lestrade shrugged.  “Beats me. You’re the one who speaks Holmes.”  John rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure I speak Mycroft well enough.”

“Nobody speaks Mycroft but Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupted angrily. “And he’s not our problem right now. Would you like me to continue, Detective Inspector,” he glared, “or would you prefer to discuss the subliminal messages of my brother’s enigmatic parting words?”

“Alright, genius, just wondering.” Lestrade held up his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Go on then, share your insights with the puny peasants, will you?”

As Sherlock launched himself into one of his rapid fire speeches, Lestrade tried very hard to put a firm lid on the memory of Mycroft Holmes’ velvety voice so very close to his ear and the smell of expensive wool and subtle cologne that always accompanied him.  While the younger Holmes was trying at times, the older Holmes was… tempting.  As in, always.  And he didn’t want to think about it right now.  Not with Sherlock Holmes and his lightning quick deductions close by.

*******

Lestrade hastily stuffed his shirt and tracksuit bottoms into the small gym bag by the wheelie bins.  That was the part he hated most – so undignified, crouching behind the rubbish bins like a perv.  When the bag was safely put away, he Shifted and started running.  It was still summer, and a lovely one at that, but he was grateful that bit by bit, darkness was starting to settle in a little earlier.  It made hiding and not being seen significantly easier.  He dashed through the streets, using shortcuts and avoiding bright lights whenever possible, trying to stick to parks and gardens, smaller streets and alleyways.  It got more difficult the closer he got to his destination.  Only the most casual observer would mistake him for a greyish dog, and although there was now a ban on shooting foxes, there was none on traps or nets.  Silver fox fur still was a trophy to be had, and he didn’t plan to end around any rich woman’s shoulders any time soon.

He quickly found his little private entrance – marking one’s territory was a useful thing indeed – and wormed his way onto Mycroft Holmes’ property.  The French door was half open, and just like a few days before, piano music was drifting out into the garden.  Greg carefully made his way towards the door, suddenly uncertain about whether he had interpreted Holmes’ words correctly.  He had felt so sure about it earlier, but now, taking in the elegant surroundings, he felt oddly out of place.  He wasn’t easily intimidated, but this, being here in his Fox shape… what had he been thinking?  He crawled back deeper under the hydrangea when the music stopped and a soft wave of _Welcome_ and _Home_ washed over him.

Mycroft appeared in the door, opening it, his all-seeing Holmes eyes spotting him instantly.  He gave a small polite bow and said in an amused voice, “Please do come in, Detective Inspector, I so hate to repeat myself.”  At the sight of the silver fox slowly emerging from his hiding place with twigs in his fur he heaved a little dramatic sigh – not unlike his brother, Greg mused – and shook his head.  “Look at you, the mess you’ve made of yourself.  We will have to think of something to avoid this if you intend to become a more regular houseguest.”  He got to his knees and held out his hands.  “May I?”  Greg trotted towards him, wary but curious.  Careful hands plucked out the twigs, nimble fingers removed leaves and even the odd limpet, and Greg found he was enjoying this little grooming.  He was almost disappointed when Mycroft was done, and it must have shown, because Mycroft chuckled softly.  “Detective Inspector, who would have thought you to be such a vain creature?”  He gestured inside.  “Come in?”

Greg eagerly followed him.  He had never given much thought as to what Mycroft Holmes’ home might look like although he had been certain it wouldn’t be as messy as 221B Baker Street, and in that he was quickly proven right.  He hadn’t expected it to be so… cosy, however.  He had suspected it would be of a more official character, either cool and stylish in a Zen way, or maybe traditionally stuffy with heavy, dark furniture - a showroom of sorts, anyway, to entertain guests or whatever minor government officials did after they left their office.  He was led into the sitting room, and paused to take it all in.  Light, friendly colours, a gigantic sectional couch, a wing-back armchair, a club armchair, coffee table, beautiful ceramic wood tiling, a tasteful flower arrangement in a huge floor vase, and oh, an impressive television set as well, speakers strategically planted, and Greg briefly wondered whether it was used for watching the news and educational documentaries only, or whether Mycroft Holmes might actually be an unexpected movie buff.  Anyway, it all spoke of impeccable taste, yet didn’t look untouchable or purely decorational.  There were newspapers lying on the couch, a tea set and a remote control on the table, and the cushions looked like they had been arranged for comfort, not for looks.  And the smells, oh wondrous smells, beautiful smells.  He smelled flowers, paper, tea, fruit, furniture wax, the light summer breeze, and Mycroft, his cologne, his clothes, his soap, his skin, he smelled Mycroft everywhere.  Greg decided he liked this room.

His ears pricked up when he saw the grand piano, and he looked at Mycroft expectantly.

“Would you like me to continue playing?” Mycroft asked smilingly, and Greg tried to communicate as much enthusiasm through his eyes and ears as possible. “Wouldn’t you like to see some more of the house first?” Greg looked up, surprised.  If he were a dog, he would excitedly wag his tail. “Follow me, then.” Mycroft stepped into the hallway.

Greg was given a quick tour.  The house did have a more formal section after all.  There was a rather large dining room, “Yes, I am afraid I do have to entertain every now and again”, and a spacious living room that was clearly intended for entertaining purposes, furniture and decoration stressing highly on class, style and taste.  Uninteresting.  A smaller, adjoining room contained… a snooker table.  Greg gave a surprised huff.  He would never have taken Mycroft Holmes to be a hustler, but then again, he could see the traditional game appealing to him.  He wasn’t too bad at shooting a quick game of pool himself, but he had never bothered to try and master the art of snooker.  The human part of Greg’s mind flashed an unhelpful image of Mycroft Holmes in a crisp white shirt and tailored trousers and waistcoat, bending over the snooker table, expertly handling the cue.  He was grateful certain parts of his human mind lay dormant by default when in Fox shape, but he was pretty sure this was an image he would sooner or later conjure up while in the stillness of his own bedroom.  Mycroft didn’t appear to have picked up his thought, but then again, they were neither Linked nor Bonded, although they seemed to be able to Project on a rudimentary basis.  Now _that_ was something more important to explore.

Speaking of exploring… the kitchen was a work of art.  Greg fondly gazed upon the shining equipment and the generous work top, wondering whether he might rediscover his love for cooking he remembered possessing when he was younger.  He couldn’t claim to be a chef, had never thought of being anything other than a policeman, but he had always enjoyed preparing food, trying new recipes, smelling the ingredients, wondering what might happen if he added this, or exchanged this with that…  He sighed inwardly and followed Mycroft along the hallway.

Mycroft pushed open another door, and Greg let out a happy little bark.  A library.  Hundreds of books, huge leather armchairs, a small, but expensive looking stereo discreetly sitting in a corner, and a beautiful fireplace with a fluffy looking rug before it.  Greg made a little humming sound, images of cosy fires appearing before his inner eye, of quiet winter evenings spent dozing, of comfort and domestic bliss…

_Warmth._  
 _Safe._  
 _Home._

He stole a small hopeful glance, and Mycroft didn’t seem put off by the images he Received.  He didn’t say anything, merely smiled.  He seemed to be doing this a lot tonight, smiling.  He felt he liked it.  Liked it a lot, actually.  He looked down at the silver fox.  “Upstairs is not very interesting. Bedroom, dressing room, office. Boring, really. Back to the sitting room, then?”  Ears twitching.  “Care for something to drink? I imagine you’ve done quite some running to get here.”  Tongue lolling out.  Mycroft laughed softly.  “Very well. Kitchen.”  They walked back to the kitchen, and Mycroft took a medium-sized bowl out of one of the cupboards – “Mrs. Jennings will not approve, I’m afraid, she’ll reduce me to a nine-year old brat caught with both hands in the cookie jar when she finds out” – and filled it with table water.  Greg daintily lapped the water, careful not to spill anything on Mycroft’s expensive kitchen tiles, and Mycroft had to suppress yet another chuckle.

It had been such a long time since he had allowed another living being into his life.  He spent most of his days with his shield firmly shut and locked in place, as natural as breathing, so when he had Received the soft signals a few days ago, he had been amazed rather than angry.  It had not seemed like a conscious probe, an unwelcome intrusion, more like a shield slipping from exhaustion, not unlike his own.  As he had Reached out, he was surprised at how soft and warm it had felt, and he had decided not to snap completely shut again, but to Project a soft message of _Welcome_ to the tired creature in his garden.  As soon as he had laid eyes on the silver fox and had fed its Signal pattern into his mind palace – something else the Holmes brothers had in common –, it hadn’t taken him long to identify who the Fox really was, and his quick visit to the crime scene earlier this day had confirmed it.  Detective Inspector Lestrade.  Interesting.  He had known about the DI being a Were, of course.  Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not thorough in his investigation of those associated with his little brother, but he had not investigated any further.  DI Lestrade had not turned out to be a danger to Sherlock, quite the contrary.  He had helped him clean up, got him out of his cocaine habits as best he could, and even more: he kept him busy.  No need to pry into his Shifting habits as long as all records remained clean.  The surprise in the DI’s eyes as Mycroft Projected into his mind, as he realized in whose garden he had fallen asleep, was genuine – lying was not possible when Touched by an Anchor, and one Touch was all it took to verify the DI wasn’t trying to hide anything –, and Mycroft had decided to plunge head first into this unknown-yet-familiar territory.  Well, maybe not plunge.  Dip his toes, carefully.

“Ready, Detective –“, he hesitated.  “Well, I do not wish to force any familiarity on you, but it does feel odd calling you Detective Inspector while you’re lapping water out of a bowl on the kitchen floor. Would you allow me to call you by your given name?”  Greg cocked his head and held up his paw.  Mycroft couldn’t help himself, he laughed, got to his knees, took the offered paw and gave it a formal shake.  “Gregory it is, then. Thank you.”  _Gregory_.  Nobody had called him that since his Gran had died.  It was either Greg, or Lestrade.  Trust a Holmes to be different in that, too.  Mycroft stood up and headed for the sitting room.  Greg gave the piano a pointed stare, and Mycroft obediently sat down on the piano bench.  “Anything in particular?”  Greg lay down, nose on forearms, getting comfortable, amber eyes on Mycroft.  “Alright, Johann Nepomuk Hummel it is, Rondeau La Galante.”  As the first notes started dancing through the room, Greg closed his eyes and sighed.  If anyone had told him earlier this week he’d soon be lying on the floor of Mycroft Holmes’ sitting room, listening to him play the piano, he probably would have asked if there was a new recreational drug on the market, and alert the drug squad.  And yet, here he was.  Who would have thought. 

******

They quickly fell into a pleasant routine.  Greg would show up at the French window late in the evening, patiently waiting to be allowed inside and have his fur cleaned of twigs and whatever else Mycroft seemed to find that needed getting rid of.  He came to look forward to the grooming routine, even more so when one evening there was a good, solid grooming brush waiting for him.  He leaned into the strokes, blissfully closing his eyes, not wanting it to stop.  Mycroft, on the other hand, began to look forward to touching the soft fur and fussed over imaginary twigs, stretching out the grooming for longer than necessary. 

They both started to make time for each other in their busy schedules, trying to keep the evenings free whenever possible, but refused to talk about it during the day, and the subject of lunch or dinner appointments, or even the briefest of social meetings, never came up.  They enjoyed their amicable silence and each other’s company, and one evening, as Greg was curled up next to Mycroft on the big couch, Mycroft reached over to tentatively touch the Fox’ big black ears.  Greg shot him an amused glance, and Mycroft had the grace to blush.  “They look so soft. May I?”  Greg gave him a Look, and inched a little closer.  Mycroft groomed his fur before he was allowed anywhere near the furniture, and now he was asking for permission to touch?  Really.  He Projected _Friend._ and put his nose on Mycroft’s thigh.  “I take this as a yes.  Thank you.”  Mycroft began stroking the soft ears, and let his hands wander along the Fox’ body, caressing the glossy fur, revelling in its softness and warmth, marvelling at its plushness.  Greg slumped against Mycroft’s legs, boneless, sighing blissfully as those elegant hands, pianist’s hands, found all the right spots, scratching behind his ears, between his shoulderblades.  It had been so long since anybody had touched him like this, so very very long, and he couldn’t get enough.

Mycroft closed his eyes, lowered his shield and allowed the Fox’s happiness seep into him.  He Reached out, hesitantly, asking permission to Touch, and as Greg’s shield lowered, he Reached deeper until he found what he had been looking for.  And when their minds Linked, it felt right, and Mycroft wondered just why he had waited for so long.  It wasn’t a Bond, merely scratching the surface, but it was a closeness he had denied himself for such a long time, a closeness he had thought he could never bear again after… after his last Bond had broken, leaving him utterly alone, raw and bleeding.  He would take it from there, and not rush into anything.

He ruffled the Fox’s thick underfur. “We must do something about this secret passageway of yours. Can’t really have a security lapse like that on my property. You found it, somebody else might, too.”  Greg looked up, alarmed.  “Don’t be silly, Gregory, I have just Linked with you. You don’t seriously think I’d cut you off again?”  Greg twitched his ears, canine for shrugging.  “Please. Let me handle this. Anthea will be in touch.”  Anthea?  “I’m afraid I will not be available for the next couple of days. Pressing matters that require the assistance of even a minor official such as myself.”  Another Look out of amber eyes, and Mycroft smiled. “Sister company needing all the help she can get, and who am I to refuse if my country summons me?”  He hugged the Fox closer, and Greg inhaled the scent that he had come to treasure – cologne, tea, expensive clothing, and Mycroft, and that last bit was the most delicious of them all.  Mycroft, who had just Linked with him, and who was actually hugging him right now.  He wondered if Greg Lestrade, the man, would ever be allowed near Mycroft Holmes but he wouldn’t press the issue.  For now, it was good.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade slowly and reluctantly opened his eyes.  6:00.  _Bloody hell_.  He stretched lazily, yawned and rolled over to stare out of the window, blinking.  As his consciousness woke up along with the rest of him, a wave of soft joy started washing over him, filling his veins with warmth, making his heart beat just a little faster.  _Linked_.  Mycroft Holmes of all people had Linked with him.  Three piece suit, umbrella, haughty, impenetrable, black limousine, CCTV, stick-up-the-arse Mycroft Holmes.  He Reached inside, seeking within him, and there it was.  A connection, pulsing, Projecting contentment and peace of mind.  He idly wondered what being Bonded might feel like.  He had heard about it, of course, two bodies and minds somehow fusing with each other, seeing and feeling what the other saw and felt, hell, even telepathy, if the stories were to be believed, but what did it actually _feel_ like?  How did it work?  Would there be no more privacy?  Did becoming one mean having a second presence with him all the time?  He put an arm over his eyes and started laughing uncontrollably.  Having Mycroft inside his head all the time?  Deducing, mind palacing, CCTVing?  Lord have mercy.  A Link could be shut down, if necessary or if so desired, and he suspected he would be doing that a lot, and so would Mycroft, their jobs being what they were, well, whatever it was Mycroft actually _did_.  Couldn’t have a DI lingering around if there were… how had he phrased it… pressing matters that required his presence.

 _Damn_.  Mycroft not being around meant no grooming for a few days, and no sitting next to him on that wonderful couch, listening to his steady breathing, the rustling of newspaper pages being turned, smelling that cologne, listening to the piano being played.  He was growing very fond of the instrument and the pearly sounds that emerged from under Mycroft’s expert hands – ah those hands were heavenly indeed.  He wondered what they might feel like on him, these elegant, long fingers exploring his body, caressing his skin as they had his Fox’ fur, teasing, scratching, and just like that, his blood went south.  He sighed.  Shower.  Now.  He would not – _not_ – go there just now, not if there was so much work to do.  Thinking of paperwork stacking up on his desk, and laundry to be done, helped call his mind to order and he flung himself out of bed and into the bathroom.  He used the toilet, brushed his teeth, then stepped into his small shower cabin.

As the water drummed down on him, his mind returned to Mycroft Holmes and his blasted hands.  Damn, he was developing such a bad hand fetish!  Would his touch be gentle, or would these fingers curl around him in a firm grip?  His own hand started to wander down, palming himself, stroking, his mind eagerly supplying all the images and memories his Fox brain had stored away.  The part of his human mind that created and responded to sexual stimuli was firmly locked away as soon as he Shifted, a non-negotiable safety mechanism that prevented wrong signals being Sent and Received, but it didn’t mean his Fox eyes and ears weren’t seeing and hearing.  He just didn’t act on anything of that nature.  From what he had heard, an Anchor’s mechanism worked the same way, to prevent him or her from taking advantage of whatever creature seeking shelter and proximity.  Otherwise it would not do to sit between Mycroft’s legs as he squatted down to groom his fur, oh my God, to be between those long legs.  Snooker table.  _Somebody, please_.  He supported himself against the tiled wall with his left hand as the right one got really busy.  Mycroft bending over the snooker table, slim hips accentuated by tailored waistcoat, long legs spreading for secure positioning… what would it take to make that calm, velvety voice break and beg for mercy?  He grabbed his cock harder and wanked himself to a shuddering orgasm. 

Waiting for his heartbeat to slow down, he rested his forehead against the tiles, grinning… and then it dawned on him he hadn’t bothered bringing the shield up.  He gasped, mortified.  If Mycroft hadn’t gone offline, so to speak, then he had just been given one hell of a show.  Splendid. 

_Well done, Lestrade, way to go._

******

Mycroft had just settled into his seat on board the private jet when the Link stirred awake.  _Good morning, Gregory,_ he thought smilingly, enjoying the sleepy warmth that flooded his system.  When he had awoken this morning, he had briefly wondered whether Linking to the DI had been a good idea, but after giving it some more thought, he had to admit to himself he had come to quite enjoy the company.  A Link did not have the intensity of a Bond, no obligations other than those of a close friendship, a mutually agreed arrangement of sorts.  If a Link was unwisely formed, it could be Disconnected without either of the participants coming to harm.  It was unpleasant, yes, but not traumatic.  Somehow, however, he doubted this would become necessary.  The DI was loyal, intelligent, a man of integrity.  Down to earth, hands-on and reliable.  And his Fox persona was… enchanting.  He had been pleased when the Link was accepted.

Hold on, what was happening?  Mycroft froze as the distinct feel of desire Transmitted.  Apparently the DI was not aware what Linking to an Anchor implied.  Unless your shield was firmly in place, an Anchor would know.  Everything.  It was possible to Link and not Receive anything but what was deliberately Projected; an Anchor, however, was able to Receive and Filter everything unless blocked out.  Gregory’s shield was wide open right now, and what was Transmitting left nothing to imagination.  Mycroft uneasily shifted in his seat as his body unconsciously responded, eternally grateful his lower half was hidden underneath the small desk, and flipped his laptop open, determined to get some work done and Not. Be. Distracted. by whatever the blissfully ignorant DI was doing. 

He was waiting for his screen to come to life when another heat wave flowed through his system, and suddenly, he was painfully erect.  He closed his eyes.  He didn’t need to go to his mind palace to conjure up images of the Detective Inspector, their latest encounter fresh in his mind.  Those dark brown eyes widening in surprise – what would they look like when further darkened by desire?  His hand fell down to his thigh, as if it had a mind of its own, and he quickly brought it back up to the keyboard on his laptop.  He would certainly not touch himself right now, especially not right here, no matter how tempting the lure.  Lust shot through him, making him draw a sharp breath, and after a few moments Greg’s shield snapped up and Mycroft sighed, relieved.

It wasn’t until a long while later that a nagging little voice inside his head started asking just why it hadn’t occurred to him to shut down the Link himself.

******

Lestrade scrawled his signature in the bottom right corner of the form Donovan had just brought in, not bothering to read the damn thing.  For all it was worth, Sally Donovan could have just made him sign his resignation form, or his death sentence by firing squad, and he was too tired to care.  Paperwork was such a bitch, the price to pay when moving up the ranks, and the piles just wouldn’t shrink, no matter how diligently he scribbled his name.  His mobile vibrated, and he squinted at the screen.

_3:30 PM, outside NSY, car will be waiting.  –A_

Unidentified number.  A?  Oh, Anthea.  He checked his watch.  3:25.  Groaning, he stretched his arms, making his joints pop.  He wasn’t cut out for desk work.  He grabbed his jacket and headed for the main entrance.  Best not to keep government officials waiting, especially not those keeping their messages brief and to the point, with generous five minute time frames.  As soon as he stepped outside, a sleek car pulled up.  White Bentley today, GTV8, he noticed absent-mindedly.  Anthea preferred sporty-expensive then.  He opened the passenger door and climbed in.

“What, no driver today?” He smiled at her, not really expecting to be graced with a reply.  Much to his surprise, she smiled back. 

“I do have a driver’s license, Detective Inspector, and this beauty must be allowed to stretch her muscles every now and then.” 

“Well, not much stretching to be done in London, is there?” 

“Ah, but I’ll be taking her for a cruise right after we’re done.”  With that, she held up her mobile.  “If you would kindly look here, Detective Inspector?” 

Lestrade eyed her mobile suspiciously.  “What are you doing? You going to flashything me?”

Anthea gave him a blank look, and he knew the brief moment of social graces was over.  He obligingly did as told.  “May I ask what this is for?” 

“Retina scan, Detective Inspector. Your parameters will be fed into the security system of Mr Holmes’ house. The, ah, security breach in the garden has been corrected, and additional readers will be installed at the front gate and the front and back entrance of the house itself, at appropriate height to accommodate your Fox’ needs.” 

Lestrade whistled.  Retina readers, of course.  How stupid of him to have thought of dog tags, and how very much Mycroft Holmes to have his house guarded at state of the art level.  The title theme of Mission Impossible popped up inside his head, and he smirked.  Mycroft Holmes, Head of Impossible Mission Force.  Anthea finished doing whatever she had been doing and flashed him a polite smile.  Audience was over, then.  Shame.  He wouldn’t have objected to be taken to a meeting place at the other end of London, to feel the Bentley come to life and stretch those powerful V8 muscles, just a little.  He nodded towards Anthea and got out of the car.

As he approached his office, he heard Donovan’s angry voice and a deep baritone delivering insults and embarrassing details about a scratch on the heel of her hand and a frayed hemline.  He walked into his office to find Sherlock Holmes in his chair, feet on his desk, and Sally Donovan with her hands on her hips.  John Watson seemed preoccupied studying his fingernails.

“What’s all this?” Lestrade barked.  He had only been gone for a few minutes, but trust Sherlock Holmes to make an entrance and stir up a place in seconds.

Donovan turned towards him, bristling with anger. “Sir, freak here went on about…”

“Donovan,” Lestrade interrupted. “Williams came up with a lead on the Jameson case we talked about earlier this afternoon. I’d like you to follow up on it. Get a team of three or four together and see if you find anything.” 

Donovan’s closed her mouth, recognizing a dismissal when receiving it.  She shot Sherlock a last angry glance and left the office.  Lestrade turned his attention to the consulting detective.

“Out of my chair, Sherlock,” he said calmly. “You know you have no business waltzing in here whenever you feel like it.”

“I’m bored, Lestrade, _bored_. My last case was over a week ago.” Sherlock got out of the DI’s chair and moved around the desk. “Find me something to do.”

“Sherlock, I am not your entertainer. I can’t make crimes happen to humour you. Believe it or not, I’m actually grateful it’s been a quiet couple of days.”  Lestrade sat down and gestured to the files stacking up on his desk. “Catching up on paperwork.”

“What’s with that Jameson case?”

“Crime of passion, it seems. Boring, really. By your standards, anyway.”

“Nothing happening at all?”

“Some breaking and entering, the odd domestic. Not my division.”

“What is your division then?”  Sherlock leaned across the desk and sniffed.  “Is shagging my brother your division?”

Lestrade looked up, sharply.  “Excuse me, what was that?”

“You heard me. Mycroft’s signature is all over you.”

“Sherlock, really…”

“That is beyond disgusting, Lestrade. I know your sex life has not been the most exciting ever since your divorce, has probably been non-existent well before that, but that you would stoop so low as to consider my brother…”

“That’s enough!” Lestrade thundered. “I am not shagging your brother!”

“How come I can Sense him on you then?” Sherlock moved closer, staring into his eyes, attempting to Reach, and Lestrade tightened his shield.  He knew Sherlock wasn’t an Anchor, but he’d be damned before he offered even the slightest of openings.  Sherlock had never bothered to Reach him before, his deductions providing him with ample enough ammunition, but the mention of his brother’s name, the merest hint at even his existence, tended to make him ignore whatever social graces he had left, and Lestrade wasn’t sure how strong Sherlock was. 

“I’d pick up a Bond if one was in place, but there isn’t… oh. You have Linked with him. That’s like foreplay, yes?”

“Back off, Sherlock, I’m warning you.”

“Sherlock, please, let it go,” came John’s quiet voice. “We all know that you and Mycroft…”

“This isn’t between me and Mycroft, John, this is concerning the good Detective Inspector. Really, Lestrade, you have given extensive proof of how stupid you can be at times, but that you would let yourself be lured into whatever my brother plans to do with you…”

“I said, Back. The. Fuck. Off!” Lestrade said through clenched teeth. “What is between your brother and me is intended to remain between your brother and me. What I do and do not do during my own time is none of your fucking business. Are we clear?”

“You have no idea what he is capable of!”

“Stop making it sound like he’s a child molester!”

“You don’t seem to mind… WHAT, John?”  John had seized Sherlock’s wrist, eyes flashing a bright blue warning.  Something seemed to pass between them, and Sherlock’s eyes blazed with an angry green.  Still, he wouldn’t let go just now.  He opened his mouth but Lestrade cut in.

“If you don’t shut the hell up, Holmes, I’m terminating your consultancy agreement, I swear to God I will.”

“You wouldn’t!” Sherlock spat at him, like the Cat that he was.

“Try me. Listen, so you and your brother don’t get along. Shame. Sorry about that. But that kind of thing happens all the time. If it bothers you that much, go find a family therapist. Don’t tell me what to do, and stay the hell out of my head!” He looked at John. “Please, I beseech you, work your magic, keep him busy for the rest of the day and I promise I’ll have some nice cold cases ready for him in the morning that he can keep himself occupied with until a lovely dead body comes his way.”

Lestrade and John exchanged a knowing look, kindred spirits dealing with the Holmes brothers, and John dragged a huffing and fuming consulting detective out of Lestrade’s office.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg stood before the front gate and gave the electric eye a sceptical look.  Retina scan, she had said.  Carefully he approached the device, flicking his tail, ears pointing backwards.  What was he so nervous about?  Being officially admitted?  Not being the secret, invisible friend anymore?  It felt a little like picking up your first girlfriend for a night at the cinema, waiting for her dad to open the door and give _that bloke_ a good hard stare.  Only, he wasn’t fifteen anymore, and Mycroft certainly wasn’t a girlfriend.

The electric eye started gleaming red, and Greg jumped back.  _Get your act together_ , he told himself, stretched his neck and sniffed the red light.  He put an eye before the scanner and waited.  There was a low buzzing sound, and the gate swung open, just enough to let the small silver fox slip in.  Greg jumped through the opening and ran up the short flight of stairs.  Another red electric eye greeted him, next to what seemed to be a small dog door.  Ears twitching in amusement, he put his eye to the scanner, and the dog door clicked open.  He shuffled through and sat in the hall, waiting.  Downstairs seemed deserted so he ventured towards the sitting room, as upstairs still was off limits.  There was no fresh scent of Mycroft, and today’s newspaper lay on the coffee table, untouched.  Maybe he was a little early, and Mycroft was still at work.  The text he had received had given an ETA, but Greg knew from his own experience just how reliable schedules tended to be.  Well, so be it.  This Fox wouldn’t run back now, not while his favourite spot was free.  He jumped on the couch, curled himself up and buried his nose in the cushions, inhaling deeply.  His favourite smell of all, his personal definition of _Home_ and _Safe_ and _Happy_.  He snuggled deeper into the cushions and dozed off.

An amused voice made him wake up with a start.  “My my, what have we here. Ungroomed and unkempt, and sleeping. Really, Gregory, that’s no way to behave. Where are your manners?”  Greg leapt across the couch and flung himself at Mycroft who had crouched down to look at him, still in his suit, but without the jacket, waistcoat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, tie removed and collar opened.  He laughed and caught the silver fox in his arms.  Greg liked the sound of that laughter, it was open and sincere, lightyears away from the thin-lipped smile that was usually bestowed on the world.  This Mycroft, his Mycroft, was warm and affectionate, and Greg Sent all of his heart’s happiness through the Link, the Fox taking liberties the man would not dare express.  For a few precious moments they sat like this, happy to be back together after being apart for what had seemed a small eternity to both of them. 

Mycroft hadn’t really been gone for long although it had felt like forever, hours stretching into days of strenuous meetings, unpleasant discussions, depressing truths to be faced, unstable compromises being worked out.  At night, he lay in his hotel room, alone, thinking, analysing, pondering.  His mind had wandered back to Greg’s moments of pleasure, and he had wondered what the other man might have been thinking of.  For a few brief moments he had allowed himself the luxury of daydreaming… but he had quickly dismissed the thought of him playing a role in the DI’s erotic fantasies.  He knew some people were attracted to the power and influence he seemed to radiate, despite his best efforts to appear an unremarkable, minor government official, and he also knew he wasn’t too hard on the eyes, though nowhere near as handsome as the greying DI.  He suspected that to Lestrade, he was merely Sherlock Holmes’ older brother, an annoying, scheming politician, someone to be counted on to pick up the pieces but not someone to… fling oneself at and snuffle at his exposed skin.

“Come come now,” he protested, laughingly. “Don’t do that, Gregory. It tickles. Please do take that wet nose of yours away from my collar, you abominable little creature!”

 _Ticklish_.  Greg filed the valuable little piece of information away.

Mycroft sat down on the couch, the fox refusing to leave his lap, and switched on the television, idly flipping through the channels.  The sound of the TARDIS was heard over the speakers, and he gave a happy little sigh.  Greg looked up and stared.

“What? You don’t like the Doctor?”

Greg blinked, Projecting _Surprise_.

“Gregory, I have just spent days discussing topics that made me _wish_ for the TARDIS to pick me up and take me away. I will not leave this couch until the Empty Child has found his Mummy. And besides, this episode introduces Captain Jack to the world, so don’t even think I will switch channels right now.”

With that, he slipped off his shoes, shifted a little and put his legs up.  Greg remained on his lap, Sending a hopeful image of being groomed, and Mycroft obediently started scratching.  Greg closed his eyes again, content, and dozed off once more.

******

Later that week, PC Warwick stepped into Lestrade’s office.  Lestrade looked up and greeted the young officer with a quick smile.

“What can I do for you, Constable?”

“Sir, we have received word from the DEFRA there has been an increased number of reported wildlife incidents.”

“Wouldn’t the WCU be in charge of that?”

“We are, sir, and we’re working on it. But, if you don’t mind me saying so, I’ve been going through the files, and I’ve noticed a detail that might be of, well, personal interest to you, sir.”

Lestrade leaned back, eyes narrowing. “And what might that be?”

“Minks, deer, hares and… foxes, sir. Silver foxes, especially.” Warwick gave Lestrade a pointed stare. “Werefox fur is very much in demand, not being as flea-ridden as your ordinary fox, and a little more well-groomed. Sir.”

Lestrade’s lips twitched at the mention of well-groomed, but he nodded thoughtfully. “Any hints yet?”

“Unfortunately, no. We’ve only just moved it up our priority list at the mention of Were being hunted down. Up to last week or so it seemed like another poaching or illegal hunting thing up in the north, and the local police are quite able to take care of their own business. They don’t need the Met poking around where they don’t belong.”

“Anything on the M.O.?”

Warwick shrugged. “Not sure yet. Snares, crossbows, no idea really. I just thought I’d let you know. Would be a shame to lose one of London’s finest,” he said with a grin.

“Shut it, Warwick,” Lestrade groaned, “I’m getting physically ill of hearing that. It was nice being reinstated after that Holmes… incident, but I could have done without the pomp and circumstance.”

“Sorry, sir, couldn’t resist. Still, I thought I’d give you a warning. You know I can Shift into pretty much every animal I have ever Touched, but you being what you are, well, your choices are somewhat limited.”

And there it was.  A not-so-subtle hint at the endless Shifter and Were rivalry.

“I’m quite happy being stuck with what I’ve got, thank you very much, PC Warwick,” Lestrade said, allowing just a touch of frost and outrank creep into his voice. Warwick grinned good-naturedly, not taking the bait. Lestrade was well-accepted among the Shifter community, the sleek Werefox never stepping into their territory but always ready to help when needed. “Thanks for letting me know, I’ll take extra care. Keep me posted, yes?”

Warwick nodded. “Will do, sir. Our WCOs will be in touch.”

With that, he turned and left the office.  Lestrade made a mental note to alert Sherlock whose street network might just come in handy.

******

When he got to Mycroft’s house that evening, he found downstairs empty again, but his sharp fox ears picked up sounds coming from upstairs, sounds he couldn’t place, and his curiosity got the better of him.  On his thickly padded feet he crept up the stairs, and then he stood, listening.  He opened up his shield, just a little, and carefully Reached out.  There it was, focussed, concentrated, absorbed.  Pressing against the walls and low on the ground, he sneaked towards the low sounds that got easier to differentiate the closer he got.  Feet gliding across the floor, the soft rustle of clothing, something cutting through the air… a weapon of sorts?  Greg pricked up his ears, his curiosity overpowering.  He inched further along the corridor of the mysterious upstairs – 'boring', Mycroft had called it that first evening, 'boring', Greg’s nose said otherwise but he stayed adamant and did not give in to the temptation that all but screamed to him from behind one of the doors… bedroom?  A room that promised more of his favourite scent?  'Boring' was something else entirely. – until he stood before a door that had been left ajar.  Carefully, very carefully he squeezed through and made himself as small as possible, watching with rapt attention.

Mycroft had got home a little earlier than he had anticipated, his afternoon meeting having gone surprisingly well, and after sincerely thanking Anthea who had once again outdone herself with meticulous preparation and flawless groundwork, he headed home, looking forward to a quiet evening with his silver fox.  Greg’s unashamed display of joy and affection upon his return earlier that week had left him utterly speechless and overwhelmed, wondering what he could have possibly done right to deserve this, and he felt something small tug at his very soul, a tiny voice starting to whisper to his heart, about giving and receiving, about closeness and happiness and sharing… about not being lonely any longer… He had done the unheard of, had cancelled his lunch appointment and had gone for a quiet walk in St James’s Park, thinking, putting bits and pieces together, and failing to come up with a proper strategy, disliking it and feeling giddy about it at the same time.  The DI was quickly becoming the most interesting mystery of them all, and he spared a fleeting thought on whether that was why his erratic brother had Bonded to the quiet and unassuming John Watson.  Sherlock, with all of his mercurial temperament and tendency to get bored oh so quickly, seemed to find the cautious doctor an endless source of inspiration and appeared to be continuously enraptured and fascinated by him.

He armed the alarm system as soon as he got home, adding the extra code for the fox entrance, went upstairs and quickly changed from three piece suit into Tang-Zhuang, getting ready for some Tai Chi, welcoming the smooth feel and loose fit of the simple black silk garment.  He entered his exercise room and went through a thorough stretching routine first, long office hours spent at his desk and in conference rooms making his muscles protest, and when he felt he was ready, he went to his weapons rack and took his favourite Jian, reverently pulling it out of the scabbard.  His hand greeted the hilt of the straight, double-edged sword like an old friend, and he began with a few simple warm-up exercises, blade and tassel cutting through the air with swooshing sounds.  He revelled in the smooth movements, letting his mind go blank until there was nothing but the sword in his hands.  With practised ease he went through the 32 simplified standard moves… _Searching the Sea_ … swoosh… _The Black Dragon whips his Tail_ … _The Lion shakes his Mane_ … _The Wild Horse leaps over the Creek_ … swoosh swoosh… lost himself in the simple yet intricate beauty of the sword form, repeating the moves until his mind and body felt at peace and in balance once more.

Greg sat and stared.  The predator in him appreciated the fluent movements and the deadly precision with which the gleaming sword cut through the air (weren’t practice swords supposed to be blunt? This one didn’t look blunt to him.), the man in him was stunned at this new version of Mycroft Holmes.  He had noticed the casual elegance with which the older Holmes seemed to do everything he did – oh yes he had –, and he thought Mycroft had re-defined sauntering and turned it into an art form, but he had attributed it to years and years of moving in political circles where each and every nuance of body language and facial expression needed to be under firm control.  There was nothing casual about the sword routine he was witnessing now, and for the umpteenth time he asked himself just what it was that Mycroft actually did for a living.

Mycroft finished, collected himself, and then he walked – _sauntered_ – back to the weapons rack and put the Jian back.  Only then he acknowledged the silver fox sitting by the door.  He went to stand before him and tsked. 

“Good evening, Gregory. Spying on me?”  Greg hung his head, tail swishing nervously. 

Mycroft playfully tugged one of his ears and said, “Oh come on, I’m not angry at you, don’t be absurd. You are free to wander around to your heart’s content, nothing in this house is off limits to you. I would appreciate it if you stayed away from the office, for reasons of confidentiality, but I’m sure I don’t need to point that out to you of all people. This here,” gesture indicating the… _dojo_ …, “is where I go when I need to unwind. Lying in a heap on the couch does have its appeal, but the human body was not designed to remain motionless all day.”

He paused.  “Would you mind if I took a quick shower and then joined you downstairs? I believe Mrs Jennings has set out a little snack for you.”  A soft chuckle.  “She has grown quite fond of you and has asked me to let you know that you’re welcome to drop by any time of the day. I have yet to receive such an open invitation into her sanctum.”

Greg gave a short bark and shot downstairs.  Mrs Jennings’ snacks were – apart from Mycroft himself – the best part of being allowed into this house.  Trust Mycroft to have found himself a housekeeper-and-cook who surpassed even the formidable Mrs Hudson.  

Mycroft joined him a little while later in the sitting room.  He had changed into a pair of Chinos and a loose-fitting long sleeve shirt, a pair of simple canvas slippers on his feet.  Greg smiled inwardly.  So this was Mycroft dressing down.  He liked it.  It made him less inaccessible.

“Come here now, you little spy, let me see if I can get a brush through that fur of yours.”

Mycroft knelt down, one knee on the floor, grooming brush in his hand, patting the floor between his legs.  Greg hurried to stand between them, impatiently waiting for the brush to work its magic.  At the first strokes, he closed his eyes.  _Bliss_. 

“Really, Gregory, where have you been with that tail of yours? One day you must tell me about the route you take to get here. I wasn’t aware London had that many hedges and whatever bush assortments you see fit to squeeze yourself through. I could start my own nursery with the twigs you carry around in your tail.”  Despite his mock-stern words, his hands were gentle on the fox’ fur, careful not to pull the dense underfur.  Swift, strong strokes along the back and the legs, a little more careful along the soft belly, fingers raking through bushy tail and playing with big black ears.  Sadly, the grooming ended, and Greg dropped down on the floor, boneless with contentment.  Mycroft laughed and rose to put the brush away.

“How would you feel about a little Debussy tonight?”, he suggested, turning towards the piano.  A wave of approval Transmitted through the link, and Mycroft sat down and started playing.

A sudden ringtone cut into the soft notes with sharp dissonance.  Mycroft frowned at his BlackBerry that was lying on the coffee table, but got up nevertheless.  He read the message and blanched.  Without a word, he hurried upstairs, and a door slammed. 

Greg stretched and looked at the doorway.  This was clearly something he had no dealings with, so he hopped into his favourite spot on the couch, curled himself up, and waited.

After a while, he started getting restless.  The Link was shut down, and yet, there was something not right.  A sickening feeling of _wrong_ seeped through, despite Mycroft’s shield being up and sealed shut.  He jumped off the couch and stood by the door, indecisive.  Still, the icy feeling clawed at this heart, so he ventured up the stairs, sneaking for the second time this evening.  He sat down opposite a door that he assumed was the office door – there was a distinct scent of Mycroft, although not as rich and tempting as what was calling to him from behind the bedroom door –, and waited some more, alert and vigilant.

When the door finally opened, a weary Mycroft emerged, his usually calm and composed posture broken, every inch of his tall frame oozing misery.  He leaned against the wall for a moment, then slid down until he came to sit on the floor.  He blindly reached for Greg who was by his side in an instant.  Mycroft held his silver fox close, buried his face into the soft fur and breathed in the familiar scent, seeking comfort in the warm body pressed against his chest.  And when the tears came, he wasn’t ashamed of them, and Mycroft cried for what had happened, what neither his careful planning nor his strategically played influence had been able to prevent.

He finally sat back, unfocussed eyes staring at the opposite wall.  Greg Sensed an internal struggle but decided not to pry and rested his head against Mycroft’s chest instead, listening to the steady heartbeat.  Mycroft absentmindedly played with the soft black ears, and when he seemed to have come to a decision, he sat the fox gently on the floor and stood up.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” he said in an unsteady voice.  Greg twitched his ears and lay down, nose on his forearms.  Mycroft vanished behind the door next to the bedroom and Greg heard him blow his nose.  There were rustling sounds and clothes hangers being moved – was he changing back into one of his suits?  Did he have to go back to the office?  Greg hoped that wasn’t going to be the case. – and when Mycroft re-appeared, he crouched down and placed some articles of clothing on the floor next to Greg.

“I was wondering… would you consider Shifting and keep me company for a while? If you don’t mind, that is. I don’t want to be… I would like to have some…” He broke off, uncertain, unable to find the right words for a simple request.  Greg nudged Mycroft’s hand, Projecting _Friend_.  Mycroft nodded and stood up.

“I’ll be in the sitting room,” he said. “I hope you’ll find the clothes to be agreeable. We’re about the same height, but I think we might not have the exact same size. But it will do for the time being.”

He turned around and went downstairs.  Greg sat for a few moments, needing some time to himself to let what had just happened sink in.  He realised it was a huge leap of faith Mycroft was taking, taking the barriers down so completely, allowing him to see the man behind the politician, the loneliness of a brilliant mind.  He would have been perfectly happy to keep their agreement as it was for a while longer, had not dared hope for more.  A Werefox Linked to an Anchor was a safe arrangement since both were bound to certain moral codes while the Were was in his or her animal shape, and after all, a Fox was little more than an enhanced pet.  Greg had never really questioned Mycroft’s motives for Linking with him, had simply accepted the gift for what it was, unexpected but nevertheless more than welcome.  He stretched, Shifted and inspected the clothes Mycroft had selected.  Simple linen drawstring trousers, long sleeved V-neck shirt, and – Greg smirked – black hipsters.  Stylish.  He slipped the clothes on, enjoying how the fine material felt on his skin.  He had to roll up the trouser legs a little – Mycroft had some long legs on him – and the shirt was a bit tight across his chest and shoulders – smug alpha male grin there –, but he felt comfortable enough.

On bare feet, he walked into the sitting room to find Mycroft standing before the television, news channel turned on.  Greg stepped closer, taking in what was being said, at a loss for words.  Mycroft turned towards him, a lost look in his eyes.

“All those lives…” he said in a very small voice.

Greg reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.  Mycroft winced a little, but didn’t pull away.  Instead, he straightened up, looking at Greg.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“No need. All you ever have to do is ask.”

Mycroft nodded, then remembered his duties as a host.  “Would you like something to drink? I could use some Glenlivet now.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”  Greg made a face.  “Don’t drink and Shift.”

“Of course. Sorry about that. Anything else? Tea, or coffee?”

“Coffee, please. Black, two sugars.”

“Very well. Please, make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back.”

Carefully, Greg sat down on the couch.  It all looked so different through his human eyes.  He let his hands glide across the fabric, then picked up one of the cushions, brought it to his face and inhaled deeply.  There it was, his favourite smell.  Mycroft.  His human nose didn’t pick it up the way his Fox nose did, but it was there nevertheless.  He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, the feeling of _Home_ warming him, making him feel dizzy and overjoyed at the same time.  Mycroft.  He got up and walked over to the grand piano, carefully touched the shiny surface, softly struck a key and smiled at the tone.

Mycroft entered the sitting room, balancing a small tray.  He placed it on the coffee table and motioned for Greg to join him on the couch.  Greg sat down cross-legged and shifted to face Mycroft.  It probably wasn’t the “proper” thing to do but he didn’t want any formality to creep in, not after having spent hours curled up next to Mycroft, or even on his lap.  Mycroft’s mouth twitched, picking up Greg’s intention, approving.  He slipped off his shoes, brought his own legs up and mirrored Greg’s position.  They sat like this for a while, knees almost touching, not saying a word.  Mycroft sipped at his whisky, Greg drank his coffee.

“Want to tell me what happened?”  Greg offered.  

Mycroft shook his head.  “Would you believe me I’m sometimes tired of talking? You talk and talk until your tongue feels like it’s about to roll up and wilt, but nobody listens. They hear, but they don’t _listen_.”

Greg had to stifle a laugh and tried to hide it behind a cough.  Mycroft sounded so very much like his brother that Greg could almost hear him – “you look, but you don’t _observe_ ” –, and Mycroft glared at him.  Again, so very much like Sherlock, and this time, Greg couldn’t help himself. 

“Don’t hate me, Mycroft, but you and your brother have so much more in common than either of you will ever admit.”

Mycroft sighed.  “And am I ever aware of it.”  He took a deep gulp.  “So, Gregory, what does it feel like?”

Gregory.  _Damn_.  That, too, felt a lot different to the man than it did to the Fox.  Gregory.  Spoken with that soft, velvety voice… he wanted to hear it whispered against his skin, wanted to hear it sighed, wanted… wanted it so much…  He cleared his throat and met Mycroft’s gaze.  There was something in the blue-and-grey eyes that he couldn’t quite fathom, and so he quickly turned back to the question that had been asked.

“What does what feel like?”

“Shifting. What does it feel like, and what does it feel like to be a Fox?”

Greg relaxed, rested against the soft cushions and started talking.  Mycroft poured himself another glass and listened.  He let the words wash over him, the facts of Shifting familiar to him, of course, but he wanted to hear Greg talk about it, wanted to add each and every nuance of Greg to his mind palace, his speech pattern, the slight huskiness in the voice, deep brown eyes lighting up at an especially vivid description of the Fox’ joy at taking in the smells of his surrounding, lively gestures and expressive face.  The man sitting on his couch, completely at ease, was so different from the gruff and wary Detective Inspector, he was animated and caring and funny… and so very, very attractive.  The thing that had been tugging at his soul, whispering to his heart, was becoming more urgent, louder, demanding to be heard, but he wasn’t ready yet, it was all happening so quickly, he needed more data, more facts, more…  He closed his eyes and tried to shut the unwanted thoughts out.

“Everything OK, Myc?”  Greg tentatively touched his knee.

Myc.  _Oh dear._   He hated having his name abbreviated, but it sounded so right, coming from Greg.  Myc.  What would it sound like gasped into his ear?  Moaned in that husky voice?  He blinked once, twice, three times and met Greg’s brown eyes – eyes like liquid chocolate, eyes he would love to lose himself in, he finally accepted it, if only to himself – that looked a little worried right now.

“I’m fine, Gregory, thank you, it’s just… I’m a little tired, I hate to admit, and I expect tomorrow to be long and entirely unpleasant.”

“Hell, I’m sorry, and here I am, rambling on and on, and you probably want to go to sleep. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I enjoy listening to you. I asked for it, remember? I needed that, something so different from what my world is usually made of. It's... nice, not being the one to do all the talking. No need to apologize. Don’t ever apologize to me again, please.”

They stood up, facing each other, an awkward silence falling between them.

“Well,” Greg finally said, “thank you for lending me your clothes.”

“You’re very welcome.”  A brief pause, another internal struggle, then, “Maybe you would like to have an extra set of your own clothes sent over, for the next time?”

Greg couldn’t help the happy smile that spread across his face.  The next time.  There would be a next time. 

“Yes, I would like that. I would like that a lot.” 

Their Link brimmed with Greg’s joy, and Mycroft allowed some of his hopefulness to seep through as well. 

And just like the Fox had been invited into Mycroft’s home, Greg Lestrade was being invited into Mycroft Holmes’ life.

Still smiling, they walked through the hall to stand by the entrance door.  Greg took the shirt off and handed it to Mycroft who gave him a strange look.

“Oh come on, Myc, you know I can’t Shift with my clothes still on,” he started, but something in the other man’s eyes made him stop.  Mycroft’s gaze swept over him, speculatively, his all-seeing eyes taking in every detail, deducing him, something Greg had grown accustomed to, and yet… there it was again, that expression he had noticed back in the sitting room, the one he hadn’t been able to decipher.  He opened his shield wide, Reached, and found… _Hunger. Want. Need._

His heart started beating faster, and acting on instinct, he reached out and gently touched Mycroft’s cheek.  Much to his surprise, he neither flinched nor backed away.  Instead, his eyes met Greg’s, hesitant, waiting, with just a touch of… shyness?  Greg unconsciously licked his lips, suddenly a little nervous himself, but Mycroft’s eyes darkened and that was it.  Greg closed the distance, leaned in, their bodies almost touching, but not quite, and the heat emanating from his bare torso threatened to overwhelm Mycroft’s senses.

Greg kissed him, and Mycroft burned. 

“Good night, Mycroft”, Greg murmured against Mycroft’s lips.  He would not take it any further, not tonight, not with Mycroft being so vulnerable.  He wanted the powerful Anchor, the graceful swordsman, the composed and haughty… _Holmes_ , for God’s sake, he wanted the man in his entirety, giving himself freely and consciously, and he would wait.  Patience was a prerequisite for any policeman, and he was a damned good one, and a sly Fox, too.  He would wait, patiently.

He peeled off his trousers and pants and crouched down to Shift in one swift movement, knowing the lightning quick Holmes eyes had got a good look all the same.  Ears twitching in canine amusement, the Fox disappeared through his small door and dashed off into the night.

Mycroft Holmes stood in his hall, clutching the shirt Greg had worn and inhaled the scent that clung to it.  He added the image of lithe muscles and smooth, lightly tanned skin to his mind palace, of powerful thighs and… well… he grinned as he felt his body stir… a _promise_ of things to come.

And despite the tragic outcome of events, and despite knowing the next day was going to be especially trying, he went to bed with a light heart, fell asleep immediately and didn’t wake up before his alarm went off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEFRA = Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs  
> WCU = Metropolitan Police Service’s Wildlife Crime Unit  
> WCO = Wildlife Crime Officers
> 
> The sentence “Greg kissed him, and Mycroft burned” was stolen from beautifulfiction’s wonderful collection “The Hive”, http://archiveofourown.org/works/682451, Chapter 26, Prompt: Fire. I altered it to suit my story, but it’s stolen nevertheless. It’s a small sentence, but oh so powerful, and I humbly and publicly beg forgiveness.


	5. Chapter 5

They didn’t see each other again before the middle of the following week, due to “most recent incidents, dreadfully sorry”, but Sherlock Holmes kept Lestrade busy enough, presenting him with a suspect for a particularly nasty triple murder from a few years ago, one of the cold cases Lestrade had provided him with.  The victims each had a parent teaching at a Hackney secondary school but the DI in charge back then had not managed to single out enough evidence to nail a prime suspect and so the case had been dropped eventually.  It had taken Sherlock all but two days to spot that one missing piece, and while listening to the detective’s deductions it all became painfully obvious when presented from that angle.  Lestrade was not looking forward to the paperwork.  He would have to come up with fanciful paraphrases of how ingeniously the tracks had been covered up when in fact it had been the oversight of a police officer, and although Lestrade would not condone negligence, even in hindsight, he would not allow derogatory remarks being made about one fine Detective Inspector who had suffered a tragic loss and shouldn’t have been given that particular case at that particular time.  He would have to stretch his storytelling muscles to present a consistent report pointing out how the chain of evidence had been incomplete back then… and oh dear Lord, how he hated writing reports.

He groaned, pinched the bridge of his nose and wished for the day to be over when Donovan poked her head into his office.

“Sir, suspect’s ready and in interrogation room 2.”

Lestrade sighed, got up and followed Donovan along the corridors.  She glanced at him, sideways, started as if to say something, seemed to change her mind and gave him another inquisitive stare instead.

“What is it, Sally? Out with it,” he encouraged her.

“It is not my place to say, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “And that has stopped you since when?”

She grinned a little.  Lestrade grinned back.  He actually liked her, despite her constant bickering with a certain consulting detective.  She was bright, ambitious, observant and always on top of her work.

“Well, sir, you seem a little more relaxed these days, and I wondered…”  She broke off, not wanting to overstep a border.

“You wondered – what?”

“Well, I wondered if there’s something good going on for you at the moment. I’d be happy for you, sir,” she added hastily. “It’s not been good for a while, you said so yourself.”

He looked at her, surprised.  He hadn’t given it all much thought, really, had taken it in his stride, or so he had thought.  Donovan, just like himself, seemed to have been infected with the Sherlock virus, no matter how much she disliked the man, and had started to observe more closely, seeing things that would otherwise have escaped her.  He asked himself what it was that gave him away, what she was seeing.  Was there a new spring to his step?  Was his posture any different?  Some kind of gleam in his eyes?  He found a lot of things easier when in Fox shape.  Complicated human behaviour patterns didn’t exist then, although part of his human mind was still on, would always be on, but the Fox’ simpler way of perceiving and communicating was in the foreground.  No need to be politically correct or professionally distant when on four legs.  Joy – fling yourself at someone and snuffle his skin.  Need physical contact – bump your head against his leg.  Content – curl yourself up next to him, and breathe that wonderful scent that filled his entire being with warmth and happiness.  It had all been so simple until the dynamics had somehow shifted when the man was invited into the Fox’ place… until that moment he had taken his heart into his hands and kissed that mouth, that beautiful straight-lipped mouth that had been surprisingly soft and had tasted like whisky and had given a cautious response to an unspoken question… and Sally Donovan was giving him a funny look.

“Sir?”

He forced his mind back into appropriate patterns.

“I’ve been Shifting again, regularly. It’s not been exactly… easy since breaking up. Wasn’t myself there for a while. Now that I’m back at it, I feel so much better. Shouldn’t deny myself what I need.”  He cut himself short, uneasy about giving too much about himself away.

“You shouldn’t. Sir.”  A quick glance confirmed she hadn’t bought his half-arsed explanation but she didn’t push it.  She was smart indeed, and he would give Sherlock a word or two the next time he started about inept police officers.

“Here we are.”  She pushed the door of interrogation room 2 open and he stepped through, mind snapping to attention, shield shutting down, years of training kicking in.

He sat down opposite the suspect, a middle-aged man of medium height and build, Shifter spelt all over his rigid frame, and switched on the recording device.

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade commencing interview with William Bishop at –” he glanced at his watch, “11:05 AM. Also present in the room is Sergeant Sally Donovan.”

******

“I will get you for this! I fucking swear I’ll find out what you Shift into, and I will fucking get you!” Bishop yelled at Lestrade as he was being ushered out of the room by two sturdy uniformed policemen.  Lestrade followed, unimpressed by the man’s tirade.  He had heard it all before. 

“You filthy Were! I’m gonna rip you apart! I’m gonna fuck you up so bad you will never be able to Shift again! I will make you piss blood and shit guts for the rest of your piss poor life, you fucking bastard!”

_I think not._

Suddenly Bishop went very still, as if the breath had been knocked out of his lungs.

Lestrade frowned at the fear that had settled across the man’s angry face.  Puzzled, he turned to see what had inspired it, only to detect the tall shape of Mycroft Holmes standing at a safe distance, impeccably dressed, leaning on his umbrella, giving a polite smile.

“Might I have a word, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade straightened up, forced his features into a mask of professional indifference and hoped Donovan wouldn’t hear his heart drum against his ribcage.

“What can I do for you, Mr Holmes?”

“Your office, please? Unless I’ve come at an inconvenient time?”

“No, it’s fine, we’re done for now. Sergeant, please take over from here, I’ll be joining you in a little while.”

Donovan nodded curtly, glad to be able to get away from the freak’s brother.  As much as she detested Sherlock Holmes and thought him a dangerous psychopath who would one day snap and be the cause of a murder left for them to investigate, it was his brother who gave her serious creeps, and so she gratefully took the file from Lestrade and hurried off.

Mycroft followed Lestrade into his office, kept a polite distance and remained silent.  He took off his grey Herringbone overcoat, carefully placed it on one of the visitor’s chairs, sat down in the other and waited for the office door to be closed and the blinds to be lowered.

Greg sat down behind his desk, feeling nervous.  He wasn’t a teenager anymore, for heaven’s sake, he had no business becoming all flustered and twitchy.  Mycroft shot him an amused glance, dropped his shield and Sent _Joy_ and _Hopeful,_ and suddenly Greg didn’t care whether he was a grown man or a teenager, he couldn’t help the butterflies in his stomach. 

“So, Gregory, what has my annoying little brother been up to?”

Greg stared.  “You’re not seriously here to discuss Sherlock?”

A soft chuckle.  “I was looking for an opening, and Sherlock seemed a logical choice. But no, I’m not here to discuss Sherlock.”  A pause.  “Actually, I was wondering if you have plans for the weekend. I believe there are a few things we need to discuss.”  Mycroft inspected his immaculately manicured hands.  “If you are busy, I’m sure we can find time during the week.”

“No, I’m free this weekend. I’m pretty much on top with my paperwork, and your annoying little brother has solved a major case, a cold case, actually, but I won’t have to hand in the report for that one before Monday evening, so I’m good.”  He flipped through his desk calendar.  “Well, damn, scratch that, I’m due for my firearms refresher course which is… Saturday. Damn. Sorry about that.”  Disappointment killed some of the happy butterflies.  “If I want to keep my license then I’ll have to attend, and pass the test, too.”

“Do you have any reason to believe you will not pass the test?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’m no crack shot but I’m not doing too badly. Haven’t failed a single one so far.”

“That’s reassuring to hear. London is in capable hands, then. Should I ever fail my test I’ll know where to find help.”

Greg’s eyes widened in surprise.  “Are you telling me you’re licensed to carry?”

“Why, of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just that I thought… I mean, you’re like, in the government, right? Don’t you people have bodyguards and security and panic buttons and stuff?”

“Yes we do, but I can’t very well drag them along wherever I go, and besides, you know my position is but a minor one.”  Greg was given one of those non-descript smiles and he smirked.

“Right, I’ve heard it all before. Minor government official my bushy tail. So, Myc, are you a good shot?”

“No, not really. At least I wouldn’t call myself a good shot. About that weekend. Are you free next week, then?”

Greg flipped through his calendar again, making a big show of it.  Mycroft smiled, a real smile this time.

“Are you playing hard to get, Gregory?”

Greg got up, walked around his desk and leaned against it, facing Mycroft.

“Are you asking me out on a weekend date, Mycroft Holmes?”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow and tsked.  “I’m offering the Fox in you a chance to get out of the city for a weekend and sniff some seaside air. I’m sure Cornwall has a vast collection of hedges to squeeze through and plenty of twigs to carry around in aforementioned bushy tail.”

“Cornwall, huh?”

“South Cornwall, to be precise. Near Falmouth.”

“Holmes family home?”

Mycroft looked horrified.  “Dear God, no. The Holmes mansion is located in Oxfordshire. Not quite the place for a… weekend date.”

“So you _are_ asking me out on a date, then.”

“Gregory, we’ve been spending a lot of time together lately. I have Linked with you. Wouldn’t you agree it’s time we got to know each other on a more personal level, outside our official functions, and away from all… this?” Vague gesture indicating the office.

“I would like that a lot, but… are you sure you’re OK with that? I mean, isn’t it too soon? Last time was some kind of emergency, and I don’t want you to feel obliged and rush into things.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, very Holmes-y, and all but snorted.  “For pity’s sake, don’t be absurd. I never offer anything I’m not perfectly willing to give, and I certainly do not consider myself under any obligation whatsoever. I haven’t been in Falmouth since July, that’s all. The house is big enough to host eight guests so there will be plenty of room to grant either of us a sufficient amount of privacy. Unfortunately we’ll miss the last polo tournament of the season,” a deep sigh, “but I guess it can’t be helped. Sad, all the same.”

“Did you just say polo tournament?”

“I did.”

“As in, horses and sticks?”

“Yes, Gregory, as in horses and sticks.”

“I didn’t know you’re into horses.”

“I’m not _into_ horses. I ride them. My family used to breed them, my uncle still does, in fact.”

Again, Greg stared. “So you ride horses, and you like polo.”

“I ride horses, and I play polo. Have been playing since I was twelve. Up until a few years ago I used to play number three, but sadly, I cannot spare enough time to train on a regular basis anymore, so depending on my team, I’m either number two or number one.”

Greg felt his mouth gape open and quickly closed it. All he could think of saying was, “Does Sherlock play, too?”

“Sherlock? Sticking to a regular training schedule? Being part of a team? Over his dead body. It’s a shame, really, he’s an excellent horseman. You should have seen the look on Dr Watson’s face when he found out. In fact, he looked a bit like you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Indeed he did. Positively thunderstruck. I believe it wasn’t so much the idea of Sherlock indulging in any kind of sports per se, but rather the images equitation tends to conjure up. You know, black riding boots and white trousers. Did you know that polo ponies are trained to respond to their rider’s leg and weight cues?”

“Leg cues?” Greg choked out, the image of Mycroft wearing knee-high riding boots and tight white trousers doing strange things to his mind.  Mycroft grinned mischievously and slowly crossed his legs, his very long legs, legs that knew how to control a horse.  He was vastly enjoying himself and he liked the way his skin tingled under those dark eyes.  He opened his shield wide, drinking in the other man’s unashamed desire and hunger, overwhelmed at how his very soul seemed to stir back to life after years of self-inflicted hibernation.  Greg, on the other hand, was beginning to develop a fierce dislike of tailored three piece suits that gave nothing useful away of a man’s build.  He Projected frustration, and Mycroft laughed.  He stood up, took his coat, put it back on and apologetically said, “I have to leave now. There’s this rather delicate matter I have to look into, and I’m afraid I’ll have to shut you out completely for the rest of the day. I don’t expect to be free until well after midnight, so I’ll be seeing you tomorrow evening then, yes?”

“Tomorrow… ah, yes, tomorrow. Fine. Tomorrow evening is fine.” Greg stood and started towards the door while he still had some grip on his self-control. “Seriously, Myc, you have no idea how badly I want to snog you senseless right now.” 

“Snogging, my dear Gregory,” Mycroft haughtily said, “is for teenagers. I’m a grown man, and I believe the correct term is to kiss somebody senseless.”

And before Greg knew what was happening, an elegant hand found its way under his jacket to splay against the small of his back, pulling him close, while the other gently tilted his head to the side to get a better angle, and Mycroft proceeded to efficiently mute Greg’s choked-out protest – they were at New Scotland Yard, for the sake of crying out loud, a police station full of nosy policemen and –women, and the last fucking thing he needed was being caught snogging – _kissing_ – Mycroft Holmes.  Then his mind went blank, and he grabbed the lapels of the expensive coat to hold on for dear life.  When Mycroft finally let go, Greg had to steady himself against his desk, surprised and breathless.

“There,” Mycroft said smugly, “that’s the difference between snogging and kissing.” 

He pulled up the blinds, buttoned up his coat, opened the office door, “Good afternoon, Detective Inspector, thank you for your time”, and sauntered off.  Greg gaped after him, envying the complete control the man had over his body.  He still felt the hard ridge of Mycroft’s erection against his own – not much left to imagination there –, delicious friction and body heat shared for a few fleeting moments, hell, if it was him having to walk down that corridor right now… _damn!_   Speaking of leaving nothing to imagination… he hurried around his desk to sit down again.  Mycroft stopped to exchange a few sentences with the Superindentent, perfectly calm and professionally polite, and Greg shook his head.  Bloody Holmeses.

He decided now was a good time to start writing up that Bishop report, and rang Donovan to drop by with the file as soon as she was done in the incident room.  By the time she got to his office, he was ready to discuss police business again.

******

Greg woke early the next day.  There was enough time for a quick Shift and run before he had to be at the office, and he had been able to park his car at a strategically convenient spot where he could hide and Shift without being seen.  He quickly got up, changed into tracksuit bottoms, t-shirt and trainers, grabbed his small gym back on the way out, jogged over to his car, cowered down and took his clothes off again.  He stuffed them into the bag, placed it underneath his car, Shifted and dashed off.  It was still dark but the sun would be up soon.  Not enough time to run by Mycroft’s house, but he just might make it to Hyde Park, if only for a brief sniff and check-up.

He never made it there.  He was trying to avoid a big black tomcat that cantankerously hissed at a hedgehog scurrying by when something touched his hindlegs.  He yelped as the snare snapped shut and tried to free himself from the wire noose, but the more he writhed and struggled, the more the metal cut into his legs.  PC Warwick’s warning shot through his mind, and that’s when he started screaming.  But then something blunt hit his shoulder, and his world turned black.

As the silver fox was carried away in a large carpetbag, the Cat followed at a safe distance, paws not making a sound, hedgehog forgotten, sharp green eyes focussed, not missing a single detail.

******

“Mr Holmes, excuse me, would you have a minute? There is something you need to see.”

Mycroft looked up from his desk at the young assistant who stood nervously by the door.  Her name was Sheila and she was a bright but shy young thing, impeccably dressed in a navy blue trouser suit, crisp azure blouse, navy blue lace up brogues – outfit extra conservative to make her look a little less girlish. 

“Yes, Sheila, what is it? Please come in, no need to stand over there.”

“Sir, please, Mr Robertson specifically asked me to get you. Please.”

Mycroft frowned.  He had arrived early at the office in the hope of catching up with his e-mails, and had managed to set up a brief video conference with the Ukrainian Prime Minister who had tried to reach him the day before.  His schedule was meticulously timed, even more so when Anthea wasn’t around to step in if necessary.  Still, he would not take it out on young Sheila who tried very hard to appear unperturbed.

“Very well. Let’s not keep Mr Robertson waiting, shall we?”

He followed Sheila along the hallway into one of the conference rooms that opened into a small garden area.  Robertson, deputy chief of security, was on his mobile, disgustedly demanding a vet service to pick up this hellcat that had somehow found its way onto these very premises that he was in charge of, “yes, you heard me, there’s this big black cat outside that just won’t go away, and no, we can’t just catch it, it’s probably rabid, it’s hissing and spitting and all claws and teeth and is trying to get in, yes, I have considered shooting it but it’s just so bloody _quick_ , so will you – hey, what the fuck?”  Robertson started as the mobile was taken away from him.

“Yes, hello, this is Mycroft Holmes speaking, who is this? Ah, yes, Sergeant Mulligan, please accept my sincere apologies, there has been a misunderstanding. Yes, I understand and I am dreadfully sorry, no, there is no need to send a car, it’s all under control. Thank you so much for your kind assistance. Yes, yes, I understand. Have a very pleasant day, Sergeant. Thank you.”

Mycroft handed the mobile back to its owner who bristled with indignation.

“Sir, Mr Holmes, if you pardon me saying so but this is just not acceptable. I have no idea how this… animal got here but it has to be removed this very instant. We can’t have stray and possibly rabid animals – sir, what are you doing?”

Mycroft opened the glass door, and the Cat shot inside, completely ignoring Robertson, meowing at Mycroft instead.

“What an unexpected pleasure,” he said politely.  “Into my office, if you please. Sheila, Mr Robertson, thank you for informing me of this incident. Mr Robertson, I would appreciate it if you kept your gun-eager tendencies in check. You know the rules, and I would so hate to file a report.” He nodded curtly and followed the Cat that seemed to know where it was going. 

Inside his office, he turned and scowled at the Cat.

“Sherlock, really, I have no time for your nonsense. What is it now?”  He grabbed his coat that was neatly hung up and flung it at his brother.  “Shift, and put this on,” he commanded.  Sherlock hissed at him but Shifted nevertheless.  He carelessly slipped the coat on and sprawled in one of the visitors’ chairs.

“Your silver fox was taken by weresnatchers this morning,” he said, getting straight to the point.

Mycroft stared at him, unbelieving.  He didn’t bother asking how Sherlock had found out, he knew the annoying little brat had his own methods and put them to especially good use when he wanted to prove a point to him. The Link had been in place this morning as he got up, and his gentle probe had been met with Greg’s usual soft joy.  He had not been concerned when the connection was shut down after a while – a police officer had to handle matters of confidentiality as much as a government official – and had begun to painstakingly schedule his day so the evening would be free.  His own shield had been firmly locked the moment he entered the office building, as always, and now he cursed himself for not having left the tiniest of windows open.  Gregory.  _Not again, not like this, please God, not him, too._

“Do you have details?” He managed to keep his voice under control through sheer power of will.

“I followed for as long as I could but lost them after a while. I’m a Cat, not a Bird, but I have an idea where they have taken him.”  Sherlock stood up and walked over to Mycroft’s computer.  For once, Mycroft didn’t bother snatching the documents off the desk, knowing his brother found politics unbearably dull.  He merely closed his e-mail screen and put the programme’s password protection in place.  Sherlock opened the internet browser and started talking while his fingers flew over the keyboard, images appearing and disappearing in a mad whirl, not having to explain or slow down because he knew his brother’s brain operated at the same speed, if not quicker.  At one point, Mycroft pulled his laptop out of the office safe, flipped it open and started the CCTV programme, the footage of which confirmed Sherlock’s findings.

Mycroft remained still for a while, evaluating facts and data, weighing possibilities, assessing feasible strategies.  Then he rose, shut down laptop and computer, rapidly typed a few text messages and started clearing his desk.  When all was safely locked away, Sherlock looked at him.

“What are you going to do now? Do you need my help, or will you send in the cavalry?”

“No,” Mycroft said slowly, hand on the doorhandle, “I will deal with this myself. Now if you excuse me, Sherlock, I must go. I believe you know the way out.”

He turned and with long strides headed for the main entrance.  Sherlock looked after him, one side of his mouth curving up in a small smile.  Mycroft’s shield was tightly locked in place, but despite their many differences and quarrels, they were still brothers and there was only so much they could hide from each other.  Something had surfaced Sherlock had not expected to ever Sense again, and it was coupled with steely resolve and deadly tranquility.  Gone was the smooth and occasionally pompous politician, and in his stead was the man he had adored when he was younger.

His big brother.

Sherlock threw off the coat, and Shifted.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAREFUL! This chapter contains cruelty to animals. But fret not, all will be well.

Greg struggled back into consciousness.  It felt as if someone was holding him under water, everything seemed to go extra slow, his head filled with cotton wool.  He blinked and tried to take in his surroundings.  Dark.  Cold.  It smelled of decay and blood, of excrements and fear.  His body felt battered, and when he tried to shift around, red hot pain shot through him, making him whimper.  There was something wrong with his hindlegs, no, his hindleg, he couldn’t move the right one, didn’t want to move it, and his left shoulder burned as if somebody had shoved a scorching poker into it.  He couldn’t Shift, not like that.  He tried to Reach out to Mycroft but all he Felt was emptiness.  Panic threatened to overpower him – Mycroft, where is Mycroft, please God, don’t let him be gone –, then his human mind took over, pushing the Fox aside.  _Right_.  He was injured, he didn’t know how badly.  He better not attempt to Shift in case he had been shot and a bullet was still trapped inside.  Shifting with foreign objects inside was as good as a suicide attempt, and that was not what he intended to do.  The Link was silent.  He Reached again.  What the Fox had perceived as emptiness, the human recognised as covered up.  Drugs, then.  Great.  He had heard about them, drugs that interrupted the Links and Channels between a Were, or a Shifter, and his or her Anchor.  He would not be able to Reach Mycroft like that.  He slumped back, fear creeping up his spine.

Weresnatchers.

******

Upon his arrival at his townhouse Mycroft politely suggested to Mrs Jennings she should take the afternoon off, briefly explaining there were matters of utmost urgency and strictest confidentiality to be tended to, and he needed to be absolutely alone.  Mrs Jennings had been employed by Mycroft Holmes for almost ten years and was well familiar with matters of that kind, and had long ago learned not to argue with her employer when he made _that_ face and spoke to her in _that_ tone, so she nodded just as politely, cleaned up and stowed everything safely away, took her coat and handbag and headed off to enjoy an unexpected chat over a nice cuppa with her sister.

Upstairs in his dressing room, Mycroft methodically stripped, neatly put his expensive suit and silk tie on hangers, and donned a business suit of an altogether different kind.  Not tailored, not a three piece, but business nonetheless.  Behind his calm exterior, his mind raced, playing various scenarios, going through alternatives.  He forced himself to pause.  Although an issue of such delicacy should be handled by himself and not be entrusted to anyone else, it would be foolish to make it a one man mission.  Experience had taught him that if he wanted to succeed, he would need reliable back-up, someone to have his back in case things got out of hand, and he had long ago learned to expect the unexpected and meet it well-prepared.  He mentally went through his contacts, dismissing them one by one, didn’t want them to become involved in something as personal as that, didn’t want to compromise them.  Sherlock?  He had offered, after all.  No.  Too headstrong, too impulsive, too… Sherlocky.  He wouldn’t do.  There was no-one else left, not really.

He stepped into his office and unlocked the safe, the larger of the two, the one that had a safety protocol so tight that all hell would break loose if one step were to be incorrectly executed.  He pulled out a lightweight case, carefully locked the safe again and went into his bedroom.  There he set the case on the bed, snapped it open and grimly smiled at his most trusted business partner whose familiar gleam seemed to smile right back at him.

Trusted… partner… Hold on.  A name shot through his mind, a solution so obvious yet hidden in plain sight, just like the man himself. How could he have missed it when he had gone through his options? He went to retrieve his mobile and speed dialled the number of the one person he knew would understand and could be counted on.  His brother’s stoic Bonded partner.  John Watson, physician and military man.  Deadly shot.

“John Watson, I call upon your help.”  The formal request for help, spoken from one Anchor to another.

“Mycroft?”  John’s voice, calm and cautious.

“I have a situation at hand that calls for a second set of eyes.”  He gave John a quick overview, feeding him the necessary details.  “Can you meet me?”  He closed his eyes, hoping.

“When you do you need me?”

“I can have a car sent to 221B within the next 30 minutes. Can you make yourself available?”

“I suppose I can take the afternoon off, not much happening today, and I stood in for Sarah last weekend. Hang on.”  The connection was muted, and after a few minutes John came back on.  “Your request for help has been heard, Mycroft Holmes, and help will be granted.”  A formal acknowledgement, and Mycroft slowly exhaled in relief.

“Thank you, John. I’ll see you in a bit.”  Then, on second thought, “Oh, and please don’t bring Sherlock. He knows, but I fear can’t handle his… drama. Not now. If he’s being difficult, tell him to take it out on me.”

“I don’t have to. He told me to expect your call.”

“Ah. Well then. And something else, John.”

“Yes?”

“Bring your gun, and your medical kit. And dress for the occasion. No cuddly cable jumper, please.”

John snorted, and hung up.

******

Greg’s head jerked up at the sound of heavy steps coming closer.  He squinted but his vision still was blurry.  He smelled fear and more blood, and he was able to make out three coarse voices.

“Hunting sucks today. Couple of scrawny Birds, three Hares, a bunch of lousy Squirrels and this here.”  A boot pressed into his side.  He yelped.  Something was dumped on the floor next to him.  One of the men edged closer, squinting at him.

“Fuck me. You know who that is? It’s the Met’s sodding silver fox, DI fucking Lestrade himself.”

“That supposed to ring a bell?”

“Yeah mate, that’s the fucker what nailed me Da yesterday. Da didn’t know about the Fox and got cut off before I could tell him but we’ve met before. Sweet baby Jesus, it’s my lucky day!”

Greg’s heart went ice-cold.  Not _his_ lucky day, then.

Bishop jr. raised a heavy shitkicker and let it thunder down on Greg’s right hindleg, the one that felt numb.  The pain was excruciating, and Greg yelped.

Bishop’s partner placed a hand on the snatcher’s arm and said warningly, “Mate, careful, you know how much a silver fox is worth. If you damage his pelt, we won’t see shit.”

“Ever seen a fox’ fucking legs turned into a coat?”

The heavy boot came down again.  Bones splintered, and this time he shrieked.

******

The main gate opened to let John through.  He quickly crossed the distance and took two steps at a time.  At the sight of the man who stood waiting in the door, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Mycroft Holmes?” he asked, only half-joking.  Mycroft smiled thinly, greeted John with a curt nod and let him in.  He closed the door behind him and turned to glance over John’s appearance, nodding approvingly.  Field jacket and trousers, coolmax combat shirt, boots.  Just as he had hoped.  John looked him over just the same, having difficulties wrapping his mind around the images his eyes tried to deliver to his brain.  Before him stood Mycroft Holmes, that much was correct, although… it was an entirely different version of the man he had known for the last, what, four or five years?  The man standing in the hall of a spacious townhouse in this very posh area of London was dressed in black tactical trousers, black under armour longsleeve shirt, sturdy side-zipped boots and was wearing this… combat outfit with just as much ease as he wore his bespoke suits John was used to seeing him wear.  He studied the sinewy frame and wondered just why Sherlock kept teasing Mycroft about diets and cakes.  He might be growing a little soft around the middle but there was no excess body fat worth mentioning, and when Mycroft motioned for him to follow him into what seemed to be the dining room, he noticed the subtle shift of lithe muscles underneath the tightfitting longsleeve and an overall deadly grace to the other man’s movements, the politician’s nonchalant ways stripped off.

There were a few items lying scattered on the dining table and a backpack sitting on the floor, and John’s eyes widened in amazement when he saw the black storm case.  He drew in a sharp breath.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Mycroft gave an affirmative nod and started outlining what he intended to do.  John’s military training kicked in, the soldier taking over, initial surprise gone.  There would be time for questions later. 

Mycroft handed him two tiny electronic devices.

“Transmitter and earpiece,” he explained. “You put this in your ear,” he showed him, “and switch it on here. This here regulates the volume, this here adjusts the signal.”

“Damn Mycroft, that’s amazing! Where did you get all this? Wait, no, I don’t think I want to know. Just you wait until Greg finds out about your toys. He will be all over you to try and make you outfit his teams with that.”  He stopped, cursing himself for this slip of the tongue when he saw the pained look flash across Mycroft’s face.  “Ah shit, sorry mate, but we’ll get to him in time.”

“I hope so,” Mycroft said curtly and proceeded to hand out equipment. “Balaclava, and night vision goggles, just in case. We might not need the goggles but it won’t hurt to bring them along,” again, John admired the state of the art devices, “and most importantly,” a deceptively thin-looking vest was handed to him, “body armour. I’m sorry I can’t provide you with something more fitting but it’s all I have at such short notice.”  John took the vest, quickly shrugged out of his field jacket and slipped it on.  It wasn’t perfect but it would do.  He put the jacket back on and rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the extra layer of the body armour.

“I’m good to go.”

Mycroft allowed just a touch of a smile into his eyes.  John Watson had been a good choice to call.  Straight to the point, no nonsense, pragmatic.  For the first time in hours he felt something like hope well up inside of him.  He put on his own body armour, slipped into a softshell jacket, grabbed a pair of gloves and the second balaclava, took storm case and backpack and headed for the back door.

“This way to the garage.”

The sleek black car, German made, ring logo gleaming as the garage door was opened, wasn’t quite what John had expected.  Then again, he hadn’t really expected any of this.

“What, Mycroft, no Jag or Aston?”

“John, please be reasonable. This is London. Endless traffic jams, impatient drivers, reckless manoeuvres, constant danger of having the paint scratched. No proper playground for the Aston. The S7 is much better suited.”

“Right, yeah, so thoughtful of you to tone it down a little.”  John snorted and got into the car.  Mycroft pulled a tablet computer out of the backpack, switched it on and slid into the driver’s seat.  He hooked the tablet to the car’s infotainment system and familiarised John with the route he planned to take and details of the area they were headed for.

They drove in silence and John processed and memorised as much information as he could.  His mind wasn’t that of a Holmes, thank God, but he knew just a little bit about tactics, enough to hold his own.  The soldier in him had recognised the trained killer the moment he set eyes on him and although he should be concerned about what he might be getting himself into, well, he wasn’t.  There was nothing of Sherlock’s nervous energy in Mycroft, no readiness to run and pounce.  It wasn’t even the proverbial quiet before the storm.  John suspected there wouldn’t be a storm at all.  It was… eerie.

Afternoon traffic had just begun but they managed to evade the major gridlock that would soon paralyse London’s main roads.  The black car came to a halt in a less than pleasant area with numerous derelict storage buildings that had broken windows and graffiti smeared all over, one of London’s many sites constantly ignored when public funds were dished out.  Perfect hiding place for all kinds of transactions of a dubious nature, John mused as he got out of the car.  He put his earpiece in place and lightly tapped on it. 

Both men started a search of the premises, a quick one to determine which of the buildings was the most likely choice for the weresnatchers to store their prey, then a second, more deliberate one, starting from the area nearest to theirs, sweeping side to side observing the area.  Each successive sweep moved them further away, overlapping their previous sweep.  They met again to touch base for the last time, John did a quick check on his Browning while Mycroft swiftly assembled his Heckler & Koch rifle with practised ease.  He stood up to put on a thigh rig, adjusted and tightened the straps so the holster wouldn’t bounce around or get in the way and slipped a Glock inside.  They pulled on their balaclavas, nodded at each other and went off.

******

Greg was drifting, floating in a haze of pain and misery and fear.  He barely took notice as other creatures were dumped next to him, Weres and Shifters alike.  His throat was raw from screaming and crying, his fur was matted with sweat, he had fouled himself when the pain had become too much to bear, and he was long past caring.  So when the first man collapsed, clutching his knee and howling at the top of his lungs, he didn’t even look up.  Then the second man came down, and the third.  The fourth snatcher tried to turn and run but he, too, fell as a bullet hit his thigh.  The hand that tried to reach for his gun was caught in mid-movement as another bullet bit into his upper arm.

Greg fought to open his eyes, and then he saw the shapes of two men approach cautiously, one tall shape with a sniper rifle slung across his back, and a shorter one, the short man guarding the taller one’s back, gun at the ready, eyes not missing a single detail.  The Fox tried to get to his legs, whimpering, and struggled to crawl towards the tall, dark-clad man whose scent his dazed senses recognized… dragging himself forward into the embrace that promised safety.  The man got to his knees and with gentle hands picked the small fox up, huddling the shivering creature to his chest, all the while trying not to cause any more damage, got up and left, not sparing a glance for the groaning men lying scattered.  As Greg drifted back into unconsciousness, his tortured body was flooded with _Home. Safe. Haven._

******

At the same time, the Met’s WCU received an anonymous call giving GPS coordinates that pointed to an abandoned factory area.  When the police arrived, they found an impressive number of captured animals – birds and mammals alike –, most of them still alive, and four weresnatchers, efficiently restrained and gagged, all of them immobilised by gun shots, none of which would leave serious permanent damage. 

Strangely enough, no charge was ever pressed, and the ballistic report never made it into the case file.

******

Back outside, by the car, John did a quick examination of the Fox’ injuries.  Mycroft’s eyes never left Greg, even as he typed a quick text message.  John looked up.

“Most of it is not as bad as it looks. Damages to the torso mean damages to the pelt, and anyway, the Were must be kept alive until it reaches its destination, or else the fur starts to decompose and thus loses some of its value. The shoulder looks bruised, not broken, the cut is clean enough, nothing a few stitches and some meds can’t fix. There’s a little swelling there but I think it’s where the drugs were injected, possibly by tranquilizer dart. It’s the right leg I don’t like, it’s badly broken, looks like a multiple tibia shaft fracture to me, displaced, fibula’s probably fractured, too. In a human, this would need to be fixed with a couple of screws and some plates but with a Were… not possible. The left leg is swollen but does not seem broken.”  John looked up to Mycroft and frowned.  “He’s too weak to Shift but I need to get an X-ray of his human bones so I can have a closer look.”

“Can’t you do something for him until he’s strong enough to Shift? Splint the leg?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to risk it. I’m a physician, not a vet, Mycroft. I don’t know an awful lot about dog anatomy. You’re his Anchor, so if he doesn’t have enough strength of his own, he can draw some from you. You of all people should know that.”

“I, uh, well…”  Mycroft shifted uneasily.  John squinted at him, surprised.  It was a rare thing indeed, to see a Holmes at a loss for words.

“What is it?”

“Well, to put it bluntly: we haven’t Bonded. Not yet, that is.”

“What do you mean, you haven’t Bonded? Mycroft!”  And for once, Mycroft Holmes was at the receiving end of the ‘bit not good’-Look.  He suddenly sympathised with Sherlock.  It felt a lot like being singled out by the headmaster.

“Mycroft!” said John again, exasperated. “You’re such a bloody… _Holmes_!”  He looked down at the Fox.  “So, what do we do now?”

“I suggest we get everything into the car and leave. I expect the place to be crawling with WCOs in a bit, and I don’t want to have to explain myself.”

They loaded their gear into the boot and then Mycroft was torn between not wanting to leave his Fox in somebody else’s care and wanting to get away as quickly as possible.  But John was a trained healer, vet or no vet, and if Greg woke up during the ride, then he would know what to do.  He had seen how John’s capable hands, a doctor’s hands, had moved over Greg’s battered body, and his mind won over his heart, as it usually did.

They carefully lifted Greg into the backseat, placed him on the soft blanket that Mycroft had pulled from his backpack, and John climbed in to sit next to him.  Mycroft took his place behind the wheel and started driving.

“I can’t believe you haven’t Bonded to him,” John said after a while.  “I mean, I can Sense him all over you, he’s imprinted in your system, and don’t you try to deny it, Holmes,” he said sharply as he caught Mycroft’s eyes in the rear mirror.  “I’ve been around Sherlock long enough, I know that look. I’m not as strong an Anchor as you are, but your signatures are all over each other. I mean, seriously, when I saw him crawl towards you, man, Mycroft, it nearly broke my fucking heart.”

“I can’t Bond to him, I just can’t. You don’t understand.”  Mycroft kept his eyes on the road and his voice sounded calm, but his knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“Oh yeah? Then make me understand. I’m not stupid, you know.”

Mycroft Sent an image to John’s mind, an image linked with unbearable pain and emptiness.  John’s eyes widened and he nodded his understanding.

“What was his name?”

“Matthew. He was my partner and my… my Bonded. He was gunned down during one of our missions. I can’t do that anymore, not again, not ever.”

“Oh dear God, you Holmeses!”  John sighed.  “Those massive intellects of yours, seeing all, missing nothing. So utterly brilliant, and so utterly stupid.”

“You don’t understand!”  Mycroft repeated angrily.

“Oh I don’t?”  John snapped back, Sending the image of Sherlock falling, of those beautiful eyes glazed over and lifeless, of a graceful body lying motionless on the pavement.  “I know all about pain and loss, and I know about regret, too. I know all about hating myself for being such an idiot and ‘I’m not gay’ and ‘colleagues, not friends’ when in fact I _knew_ he was the one the moment I stepped into St Bart’s.”  He softly touched the Fox’ nape.  “Listen, Mycroft,” he said quietly, “Greg’s a good man, he’s decent and loyal and strong, and he’s smart, too. Focus on what you had with Matthew before… before it ended. Remember the Bond you shared, remember _sharing_. You know the Link with him is still there. It’s an echo of what you had, but it’s still there. Touch it, and you know he’d approve of Greg, you know he would! Don’t dishonour Matthew by cutting yourself off.”  His voice broke.  “Don’t deny yourself the chance for happiness, Mycroft, just… don’t.”  He blinked rapidly and stared out of the window, not seeing the buildings they were passing, caught up in his own memories.

They didn’t speak again until they reached Mycroft’s house.  Mycroft drove the car into the garage and when the door slowly closed, they got out and John took his medical kit from the boot.  He reached for their equipment but Mycroft shook his head.  “Just take the storm case, please. I’ll get the rest tomorrow.”  He reached for the limp little bundle on the backseat, cradled it in his arms and slowly went towards the back entrance.  With one hand he typed in the security code and stepped inside, John right behind him.

“What now?”  John asked, setting the storm case down. 

Mycroft shrugged, helplessly.  “Do you think we can clean him up a little, and maybe tend to his injuries so he won’t be in too much pain when he wakes up?”

John frowned.  “I wish I had some antibiotics, and some painkillers. I would go to the clinic, but if I walk in there, looking like this…”  Suddenly he went still, as if listening to something.  Then he started grinning, and the doorbell rang, as if on cue.  Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and he started as if to say something, but John was already on the way to the front door.

“Can I just open it or is something going to explode if I don’t punch in a code or something?”

“No, the system is disarmed. Just open the door and push the button for the front gate.”  Mycroft remained where he was, the Fox still in his arms.

Sherlock shot up the stairs and pulled his Bonded partner into a fierce hug.

“Don’t you ever shut me out like that again,” he said sternly but bent down to press his lips against John’s, squeezing his hands.  Then he straightened up and looked at his brother.

“Mycroft.”  He nodded and held out a small paper bag.  “Look at what the Cat dragged in.”

John snatched the bag from his hands, looked inside and made an approving sound.

“Excellent, that. That will do for now.”  He turned to Mycroft.  “Where can we treat him? I’ll need a makeshift operating table, well I won’t actually operate on him but Sherlock brought what we need to stabilise him for the night.”

“John Sent me a few images and gave me enough information so I did a quick research and hacked into St Bart’s computer system,” Sherlock explained casually. “Can’t really call in any more favours from Molly, unfortunately.”

Mycroft searched his brother’s face.  “And would you kindly share just why you’re doing this? I was under the impression that you took the Detective Inspector for an idiot?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “He is, but his second in command is even worse. I’m running out of cold cases, and no-one else will really speak to me.”

“Operating table?”  John reminded them, not wanting another Holmesian bickering to start.  “Where do we take him?”

“Kitchen,” Mycroft said.  “Big enough work station, big sinks so we can bathe him.”  He turned and walked to the kitchen.  John and Sherlock exchanged a few quiet sentences, then stopped talking altogether and communicated via their Bond.

Mycroft carefully placed the little bundle on the workstation and then cleared the surface of Mrs Jennings' utensils while John emptied the bag’s content.  He rinsed his hands in the sink, pulled on the latex gloves Sherlock had brought, broke the seal of syringe and anaesthetic, drew up the syringe and flicked it a couple of times.  Mycroft eyed him suspiciously.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

John shook his head.  “Actually no, I don’t, but there’s only so much I can do right now. It’s a mild anaesthetic and I’m using the smallest possible dose. I need to examine him a little more thoroughly, see if there is more damage, and I’ll also need to splint his leg so he won’t come to harm while he’s sleeping.” 

With a swift and experienced move he injected Greg with the drug and after a few moments he peered into the Fox’ eyes.

“He’s out cold. Let’s get him cleaned.”

When the Fox was clean enough for John to be satisfied, he ordered Mycroft to go upstairs, shower and change, and “stop hovering, for heaven’s sake, you’re like a mother hen.”  He used his best doctor’s voice, and Sherlock smirked when his haughty, haughty brother didn’t say a word but meekly obeyed and disappeared to retrieve the storm case and do as he was told.

Upstairs, he put the case back into the safe and went into the dressing room to choose a pair of drawstring trousers and a longsleeve shirt, grabbed some fresh underwear and headed for the shower.  Afterwards he hurried into his bedroom, pulled the cover away from his bed and with soft towels and a warm blanket prepared a soft nest for the Fox.

When he returned to the kitchen, John was already cleaning up as best he could while Sherlock monitored the patient.  Mycroft’s heart sank when he looked at his silver fox.  Greg looked so… tiny, wet fur flat against his small body, right hindleg in a makeshift cast, so still and more dead than alive. 

Sherlock looked up to meet his brother’s eyes and in a soft voice said, “He’ll be alright, Mycroft, John patched him up well. It’s only that one leg that’s seriously injured, the rest is really just bumps and bruises. Just… do your thing, make sure he can Shift and he’ll be up again in no time. You know we heal quickly.”

John came up to him from behind and added, “Sherlock’s right. My main concern is that he needs to Shift as soon as possible, or else the bones will start to heal while they’re not properly set.”  He lifted on of the Fox’ eyelids to check the light reflex one more time.  “If you want, you can take him upstairs now. I gave him some pain meds and he should make it through the night well enough. I’ll be back in the morning, my shift doesn’t start before noon, and maybe he’s Shifted by then. Listen, if there is anything you need, call me, please, it won’t be a bother. Alright?”

Mycroft nodded, not quite trusting his voice to speak.  John lifted the Fox up and placed him into his arms.

“Good night, Mycroft. Try and get some sleep, please. We can’t have the British Government crumble just like that.”  He smiled and placed a reassuring hand on Mycroft’s arm, then turned and headed for the door, Sherlock in close pursuit.

When they went down the short flight of stairs, Mycroft called after them.  “Thanks, John, for… everything. You’ve given me something to think about.”  John tilted his head in acknowledgement.  At Sherlock, he just looked, silently.  No words were needed.  Sherlock smiled, then took John’s hand into his own and hailed a cab.

Mycroft armed the alarm system and walked upstairs.  He gently placed the Fox onto the soft bedding, slipped off his shoes and climbed in as well, curled his long frame around the small creature, providing shelter and warmth, and pulled his lightweight duvet across them, carefully avoiding the splinted leg.  Shield wide open, their Link was fed with images of _Home. Safe. Haven._  

And…  _Love_.


	7. Chapter 7

Soft whimpering woke Mycroft from a light sleep.  The Fox by his side stirred uneasily as the pain medication began to wear off.  It was still early, too early to ring John, so Mycroft put a hand between the Fox’ shoulder blades and Projected _Peace. Safe. Quiet._ , and Greg breathed out heavily and went back to sleep, albeit uneasily.

It would not do to wait until Greg was strong enough to Shift by himself.  A Were’s wounds healed much quicker than those of human or animal, and when the Fox stirred awake again, Mycroft moved to squat on the floor next to him, waiting for the amber eyes to focus.

“Gregory, can you hear me?”

The Fox flicked an ear and whimpered again.  _Pain_.

“Yes I know, and we must do something about that. Can you Shift?”

Elliptical pupils narrowed in concentration.  Another soft whine, and the Fox started to tremble uncontrollably, panic threatening to set in.

“Shhh, don’t do that, Gregory. Will you allow me to Touch our Link? I will have to Reach really deep, and for that, I need your approval. Please,” he added softly. “I can help, but you need to let me in. I will not do this without your permission.”

Greg looked at him, still shivering, but _Trust._ showed in his eyes, too weak to consciously Project but it was there, clear enough for Mycroft to understand.  Deft fingers removed the makeshift splinter which made the Fox yelp, one of the towels was cautiously tugged out from underneath him and Mycroft knelt beside the bed. 

“This will be unpleasant,” he warned and started to Reach.  His eyes flashed laser blue as his Anchor channels opened wide and the Link between them began to vibrate.  Mycroft felt Greg tentatively Reach out to him, hesitant at first, uncertain, then more confident, and with a firm clasp on the Link he started to Shift, slowly and painfully, so unlike his usual Shifting process which was subtle and swift.  Broken bones elongated and Greg’s screams shattered the air.  Mycroft took his hands and held them until the screams died away, then reached for the spare towel and tactfully covered the other man’s nakedness.  No need for additional unease.

“Can I leave you for a few moments? I need to make some phone calls, and get you something to wear, too.”

Greg nodded but then said in a small voice, “Myc, I’m going to be sick”, and started retching.  Mycroft didn’t flinch as Greg threw up all over the towels and blankets, instead he grabbed the soiled pieces as soon as the retching stopped and dumped them into his bathtub to be disposed of later, came back with a wet washcloth and helped Greg clean up.  A pair of loose-fitting Tai Chi trousers was taken from one of the shelves in the walk-in closet, along with a shortsleeve t-shirt, the lower half of the trousers’ right leg came off and by the time Greg was clothed, both men were covered in sweat and Greg was as pale as a sheet.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright now? I really must make those phone calls.”  Scrutinising eyes swept over the exhausted man who took shallow breaths to beat another wave of nausea.

“Hold that thought until I find a bucket. Please.”  And Mycroft dashed off to find said item, making it back into the bedroom just in time to hold Greg’s head.  When the last painful dry retches were over, Greg slumped back and closed his eyes.

Mycroft took his mobile and went into his office to place a few calls, and only the ones to the ever-efficient Anthea and to John weren’t barked out in a voice that didn’t encourage further discussions.

******

An hour later, Detective Inspector Lestrade of London’s Metropolitan Police was carried into an ambulance to be taken to London’s prestigious Orthopaedic Clinic so his fractures would be treated by the Clinic’s Consultant, with the assistance of a certain Dr John H. Watson, despite the latter’s protests he would not be permitted into the OR since he was neither a specialised orthopaedic surgeon nor was he listed among the Clinic’s medical staff.  Upon his arrival at the hospital, however, a smiling receptionist greeted him by his name and an equally friendly nurse showed him to the Consultant’s office where his hands were clasped in an amicable gesture from one surgeon to another.  When the X-rays and MRI scans were delivered, Dr Miller and Dr Watson were on the best of terms, Shifter and Anchor understanding each other, and headed for the OR to change into their scrubs and get started.

******

After Greg had been declared stable enough to be removed from the anaesthetic recovery room, he woke up again in a friendly hospital room and found himself watched by a pair of concerned blue-and-grey eyes.  He managed a weak smile.

“So the British Government has set some time aside to look after a beat up copper?”  It came out as a hoarse whisper, and Mycroft was immediately by his side to hold a plastic cup to his lips.

“Take very small sips, please, yes, that’s it.”  The cup was taken away again, and Mycroft pulled the visitor’s chair close to the bed, took one of Greg’s hands into his own and placed a light kiss on it.  “This government official takes particular interest in the well-being of this police officer and will gladly set aside any time for him.”  Another soft kiss to the knuckles.  “Rest now, Gregory, we’ll talk when you feel better.”

The DI closed his eyes and drifted off into sleep again, and Mycroft pulled his tablet computer out of the briefcase and started to work on a few e-mails, awkwardly typing his replies with one hand because he found he didn’t want to let go of Greg.

Their peace was interrupted when a cheerful male nurse came into the room for a quick check on the patient and tried to make friendly conversation with the posh ginger man in his expensive looking tweed three piece suit.  Mycroft gave him a polite smile but didn’t offer anything else, kept typing and waited for the young man to leave the room.  A soft chuckle made him look up.

“Giving the poor sod the silent treatment?”  Mycroft let go of Greg’s hand and watched as he tried to pull himself up a little.  He eyed his light cast suspiciously.  “I don’t like the look of that. What happened? I only remember bits and pieces. Fill me in, please?”

“What do you remember?”

Greg frowned.  “I remember running and being caught in a wire or something, probably a snare, and when I came to, I was in this… stinking place, it was cold and dark, and there were these blokes… one of them kept stomping down on my leg, and I passed out again, and then I woke up in your bed.”  The frown got deeper.  “I remember I couldn’t Shift, but then I did and it hurt, and I got sick – oh holy fuck!”  He shot a mortified glance at Mycroft.  “Did I really puke all over your bed, or is it just a fucked up nightmare thing?”

“You did indeed get rather violently sick, if I may say so. It’s all been taken care of by now,” he hastened to add, “please don’t worry about it. Your nausea was caused by the assisted Shifting process which is never easy, especially not under those circumstances. You don’t remember anything else?”

“No, well, not right now, maybe it’ll come back later, but Myc, God, I’m so so sorry. That’s, oh man, I had other plans for that bed.”

Mycroft made a small amused sound, handed him a cup of water and Greg groaned.

“Shit, that came out really well. My head’s still a fucking mess… wait, what did you just say about assisted Shifting?”  Brown eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he slowly and cautiously sipped from the cup.  “Who assisted me? Did you?”

A small tilt of the head.

“But, how? I mean, we’re not Bonded, right? Or did you perform some kind of… emergency Bond or something?”

Another amused sound.  “There is no such thing as an emergency Bond. A Bond has to be freely given and accepted thusly. I merely assisted your attempt to Shift because as Dr Watson correctly pointed out, it had to be done so you could be operated on. Injuries such as this one must be treated when in human shape.”

“I still don’t understand.”  Greg frowned again.  “How can you assist Shifting? And where exactly does John come in?”

“John was kind enough to lend some of his military expertise to your rescue, and he also assisted with the surgery. He is quite a versatile man, this John Watson. And as for the Shifting, well, let’s just say I know a thing or two that come in handy in times of need.”

“Are you trying to feed me more of your minor position crap?”  Greg snorted, put the cup away and reached to pull Mycroft closer for a chaste kiss.  “This discussion is not over yet, Holmes, but I must sleep now. I feel like shit.”

“Then with your permission, I will take my leave.”  He gave a conspirational wink.  “You know, I have a country to run and other minor officials to keep in check. We’ll talk later, yes?”

“Later, yes,” came the sleepy reply, and Mycroft rose to take his tablet computer and briefcase and headed back to his Whitehall office.

******

The next evening saw DI Lestrade sitting upright in his hospital bed to discuss the Jameson case with Sergeant Donovan.  What had seemed like simple crime of passion, if acts of violence could ever be called simple, had turned out to be a complicated matter of tangled family affairs, and a heated discussion was going on about whether or not to get a certain consulting detective involved, an option that Donovan wholeheartedly disapproved of.

“Really, sir, we have put together a great team of qualified police officers, we’re working 24/7 and it’s just not good for the team morale if that freak waltzes in and out as he pleases. He makes us look bad.”

“Sally, listen, I see where you’re coming from but this case has been dragging along for quite a while now, and you know the Super is breathing down our necks…”

A polite knock on the door announced a visitor, said consulting detective’s brother came sauntering in and gave both police officers a polite smile.

“Detective Inspector, Sergeant. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. Sergeant Donovan and I were just discussing the possibility of getting your brother involved in an affair that is proving trickier than we had anticipated.”

“Oh dear. Please don’t tell me you expect me to join your brainstorming activities. I am confident you will reach a decision that will best serve the case at hand. But Detective Inspector, if I am not mistaken, you’re not on active duty right now?”

“That is correct, Mr Holmes, and I fully intend to follow my doctor’s orders, but seriously, a theoretical discussion with Sergeant Donovan hardly counts as active duty. Look,” he pointed to the table by the window, “she has even brought some flowers, so it’s a proper sickbed visit. So what if she happened to have the case file with her?”

Mycroft made a mildly disapproving sound.

“Well, it’s not for me to say, Detective Inspector, but if I’ve been correctly informed you had some rather complicated surgery performed on your lower leg, yes? Multiple fractures to the tibia, and the fibula was affected as well? I believe Sergeant Donovan is quite able to sufficiently lead the on-going investigation during your absence, provided you choose not to involve my brother. If you do, however,” Mycroft shrugged, “you might want to include another senior officer, if only for appearances.”

Donovan shot her boss a triumphant glance.  The older Holmes still made her uneasy - what was he doing here anyway? -, but if he and she were of the same opinion for once, well, then she would try her best and put a good face on the matter.

“Sir, I agree with Mr Holmes. Please, let me handle this. My take on the matter is a promising one, you said so yourself. And I give you my word that if you decide to call the freak in on this, ah sorry,” she blushed, “if you decide to consult Sherlock Holmes, then I will ask for DI Dimmock to get involved. He has worked with him before. Please, sir.”

Greg rolled his eyes.

“Alright alright, I see where this is going. Treating me like an invalid, thanks.”

Donovan grinned at him.

“Sir, you _are_ in hospital, with a cast on your leg. Forgive me for saying so, but you’re not exactly in top shape right now.”

“Fine. You go ahead then, Sergeant, it’s your case from now on. Leave Sherlock out for now but promise to keep me posted. Alright?”

He handed the scattered documents back to her and watched her putting them away quickly.  She nodded her goodbyes and gave Mycroft a stiff little smile.  Then she was off, glad to get away from the creepy Holmes.  Greg turned his gaze toward Mycroft, his dark brown eyes softening.

“Well, Mr Holmes? How’s England?”

“England is just as she was yesterday, thank you. How are you? You’re looking a lot more yourself today, if I may say so.”

“You may, and ta for that. John dropped by before lunchtime to check in on me. Damn, that bloke is a fine doctor. I mean, I never doubted him, but now that I’m on the receiving end, hell, best hands you can be in. I’m surprised they’re not snatching him away from that clinic he’s currently working at.”

“I believe an offer will be made shortly, but whether or not he accepts it is an entirely different matter.”

He pulled up the chair Donovan had been sitting in.

“I have something of a proposal for you, as a matter of fact.”

The dark grey jacket came off and was neatly draped over the back of the chair, and when Mycroft took out the cufflinks and started to roll up his shirtsleeves to his elbows, exposing slim, elegant wrists and sinewy arms, Greg folded his hands behind his head and watched with growing fascination. He had no idea what the man was up to but he certainly enjoyed watching the precise movements of graceful fingers deftly working the fine fabric.

Mycroft took a deep breath and seemed to steady himself for a moment, then he placed the chair as close to the bed as he could, just as he had the day before.  He sat down and in an urgent voice said, “Look at me, Gregory, please.”

Greg gave him a puzzled look.

“I am looking at you, Myc. What is it?”

Mycroft held out both arms, palms facing upwards.

“Gregory Lestrade, I offer shelter and a haven.”  The traditional words of Bonding, spoken in a calm voice with just the barest hint of a tremble.  Greg’s heart seemed to miss a beat or two, then made up by beating at what felt like twice its normal speed.  He quickly rolled up his pyjama sleeves, exposing his own skin, firmly clasped the offered arms and replied, “And I gladly accept, and offer myself in return.”  The traditional accepting words, too, were spoken with an almost unnoticeable tremble.  Blue-and-grey eyes flared up in a bright laser blue, and dark brown ones turned into warm glowing amber, and as Mycroft Holmes Bonded with Greg Lestrade, the earth didn’t stop turning, the skies didn’t fall and their hearts didn’t shatter, either.  Instead, there was a subtle shift in their very souls, tiny pieces of a puzzle moving into place and the unwavering knowledge that neither of them would ever be lonely again.  Anchor and Anchored.  _One_.

Greg slumped back into his pillows, too stunned for words.  He had not hoped for this to happen.  To be honest, he had never even expected to become Anchored to anyone, had been content with the occasional arrangement he entered into, and when Mycroft of all people had Linked with him he had thought he was as close to happiness as he would ever get.  He had not even dared to dream of ever coming this close to that man who had always seemed so distant and untouchable.  There had been attraction, yes, at least on his side, whereas the older Holmes seemed to regard everything and everyone with a certain amused detachment and never appeared to even consider inviting anybody into his personal space.  He rubbed his face.

“Uhm, well, that was… unexpected. But, thank you.”

“No need to thank me. It was past due. I shouldn’t have waited that long.”  Shirtsleeves were rolled down again, cufflinks were put back into place, but the jacket remained where it was.

“What happened that made you change your mind?”

“You happened, Gregory,” and again, softly, “you happened.”  Mycroft cleared his throat.  “And Dr Watson happened, and very much so.”  He chuckled, and Greg smirked in return.

“I see. He gave you one of his Looks, then? And a stern speech?”

“A very stern speech. I felt like a five year-old.”

“Ah, John. Good man. He sure has a way with you Holmeses, right?”

“Quite so.”

They started laughing, and it was then that the door was flung open to allow the rather dramatic entrance of Sherlock, Belstaff whirling, scarf in place, John Watson on his heels.  He swept a brief glance over his brother’s relaxed appearance, noticed the same expression in the DI, and only the tiniest twitch of a facial muscle gave his thoughts away.

“What’s this nonsense, Lestrade? Donovan refuses to speak to me, and Dimmock won’t discuss my latest findings on that ridiculous Hawke cold case. Really, I can’t work like that. How long will you have to stay here?”

“He will stay for as long as I say,” John interrupted and took Greg’s chart to cast a glance over the nurse’s scribbles. “How are you feeling, Greg? Are they treating you OK?”

“Yeah, it’s all good, thanks. I’m due for another X-ray tomorrow – you gonna be there as well?”

“I expect so. Leg’s giving you a lot of trouble?”

“Nah, it’s OK. Well, no, scratch that, it still hurts like fuck when I try to move, but it doesn’t make me want to puke my guts out anymore.”  He cast a guilty look in Mycroft’s direction.  John hid a smile.  He had heard all about the unfortunate incident, as Mycroft had put it, and three days ago would have refused to believe that Mycroft himself had dealt with it, but his perception of the older Holmes and what he was able – and willing – to deal with had considerably changed since then, and it was this very moment he noticed something else had changed, too.  He softly Probed, and as the Anchor in him recognised the Bond for what it was, he didn’t hide the smile that spread on his face.  He nodded approvingly, took off his jacket and clapped his hands.

“Right. Food, anyone? I could eat something. Heard this faculty has a fine cafeteria with actual food and real coffee.”

“You can always eat,” muttered Sherlock.

John nudged him and said cheerfully, “Oh come on, don’t tell me you’ve had anything to eat since breakfast.”  He turned towards Greg, frowning as he looked at the light cast.  “Damn, I don’t think you’re fit to move around in that wheelchair yet. So, how would you feel about ordering in?”

******

Food was brought in forty-five minutes later, forty-five minutes of listening to Sherlock rant about not having actual work to do, about Donovan not speaking to him, about Dimmock being an idiot, about John not being around when he was needed, but not a single word was said about his brother having Bonded with the DI.  Greg briefly toyed with the idea of mentioning Sherlock’s near neurotic fit not too long ago when he had Sensed their Link, but very quickly discarded that notion.  There seemed to be a cautious truce between the brothers and he didn’t want to be the one to end it.

A friendly young woman brought in their food and the table was moved closer to the bed so Greg wouldn’t be all by himself.  Mycroft took his place in the visitor’s chair by his side, balancing a tray on his legs.  John happily tucked in and Sherlock pushed his food from one side of the plate to the other, but stole the odd bite off John’s plate when he thought Mycroft wasn’t looking.

“So,” Greg said between two bites.  “Anybody care to tell me what really happened?”

Mycroft and John exchanged a look.  Mycroft put down his cutlery and after what seemed to be a moment of consideration cleared his throat and began to talk, choosing his words carefully.  Greg realised he was given an abridged and censored version but decided not to interrupt.  For now.  Not until he had finished eating.  Not until… wait, what was that?

“What did you just say?”  Greg stopped chewing.

“I said I took them down”, repeated Mycroft patiently.

“What do you mean, you took them down? I thought you, well, sort of planned it with John, and then sent in the troops? What did I miss?”

“I prefer to handle certain things myself, Gregory. There are matters that I will not delegate, and your safety is one of them.”

“Are you telling me you were the one who disabled all of these Weresnatchers?”

A small tilt of an auburn head, and Greg blinked.

“But I thought, I mean, you said you’re not a good shot, right?”

Mycroft actually looked a bit embarrassed.  “That is not entirely true.”  He paused and cleared his throat again.  “I’m not a good shot. I’m an excellent shot.”

“What are you saying that I don’t understand?”

“For heaven’s sake,” Sherlock impatiently cut in.  “Mycroft used to be a sniper.”

Greg’s cutlery clattered down and he stared with eyes wide open.  Mycroft smiled, rather sheepishly.

“Royal Marine Corps, Major Holmes at your service, Detective Inspector.”

“The _fuck_ , Myc!”

“Really, Gregory, you didn’t think I was born into this suit?”

“No,” he hastily picked up his cutlery again, “but really, you’re not like… shitting me here? A _sniper_?”

Mycroft snorted, and at that rather undignified sound out of the otherwise prim man, Greg grinned and regained some of his composure.

“I used to do quite some legwork when I was younger, and yes, I was in Her Majesty’s army, not unlike the good Dr Watson here. I’m in no shape for active field duty any longer, but I have never stopped my training and under certain circumstances I’m quite capable of handling matters.”

“Oh but this is great. A Holmes consulting detective at work, and a Holmes ex sniper at home. My life is going to be so much easier.”

Sherlock made a choked sound and looked as if something particularly nasty had been forced down his throat.

“What? What did I say?”

“You said ‘home’,” Mycroft supplied helpfully. “I believe my brother finds the idea and its implication disturbing.”

John snickered. “The concept of one’s big brother having a sex life is not something you want to think about.”

“Sherlock, please. Pot? Kettle? Besides, we don’t have a sex life, for heaven’s sake I don’t even live with your brother,” Greg pointed out, but the words had an odd ring to them.

 _Not yet._   Mycroft looked at him, and as _Want. Desire._ Transmitted, Greg felt heat creeping up his neck. Sherlock stood abruptly and took his coat.

“John, we better go. I think my brother and the Detective Inspector have things to discuss that I don’t want to hear.”  John took one last gulp from his glass but obediently rose and took his own jacket.  He had grown used to Sherlock’s abrupt ways and knew better than to argue when his partner’s mouth was set in a firm line as it was now.  Some battles were best fought without an audience.

“Greg, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Mycroft.”

As the door closed behind them, Mycroft rose to put his tray on the table, then sat back down by Greg’s side, crossing his legs.

“Gregory, I realize it’s been a lot to take in, but I would indeed like to discuss further… proceedings with you. Have you over the course of the past weeks ever considered making this – us – a permanent arrangement?”

There was a faint flicker of uncertainty in those cool eyes, for the briefest of moments, but Greg caught it nevertheless, and his heart did that drumming thing again.

“Myc,” he raked a hand through his grey hair, making it stand up in odd tufts, a sight that Mycroft found positively endearing, “yeah, I mean, I have. A lot, actually. It’s funny, really, I’m usually not that quick, you know, rushing into things and stuff, but it’s like I can’t stand to be away from you. I run home to shower and sleep, and then go to work, and it’s like it’s always been, and it’s good, but all I really want is to be with you when the day is over. Not hovering and fussing and pining, and it’s OK if you have to travel, but I really hate being away from you.”  He messed up his hair once more, embarrassed.  “Shit, I sound like a girl.”

Mycroft listened to Greg stutter and stumble through his words, and when he finally became silent, he moved from his chair to sit on the bed and reached for Greg’s hands.  The DI’s hands were broad and strong and just a little calloused, a working man’s hands, but as Mycroft’s long, elegant fingers twined round them, they were a perfect fit.

“Maybe I would have phrased it differently, but the overall sentiment is mutual. When you’re strong enough to be on your legs again,” a soft chuckle, “and on your four very furry paws, would you consider moving in with me? Please?”

Dark brown eyes lit up, and Mycroft felt himself being pulled in for a kiss.  It was very different from the deliciously wicked one he had stolen from Greg in his office, the one that had left them both heated, and very unlike the first soft kiss Greg had placed on his lips that night at his house.  That kiss had asked a tentative question, not expecting anything in return, merely offering, but as Greg pressed his lips to his now, it was unequivocal, joyous and promising, and Mycroft felt… home.

“Yes, yes, and a hundred times yes. I will move in with you.”

******

And when the light cast was replaced with a walking cast, Dr Watson being satisfied with his patient’s quick healing process – the Were’s natural healing powers enhanced by the strong Bond to his Anchor –, DI Lestrade gave his landlord notice on his partially furnished flat, collected his belongings and moved into Mycroft Holmes’ townhouse.


	8. Chapter 8

It took all but one morning for Mrs Jennings to become positively smitten with the handsome Detective Inspector.  The moment he hobbled into her kitchen on his crutches to introduce himself and thank her for the wonderful snacks she had prepared for the Fox, he was firmly taken under her wings and she immediately urged him to sit down at the kitchen table.  A steaming pot of coffee appeared out of nowhere.

“Have you eaten yet, Detective Inspector?”

“Not since yesterday, really, but there was so much to do, you know, hospital forms, and then clean out my flat and come here… and then I was so tired I actually forgot to eat, so no, I haven’t had anything since yesterday afternoon. And it’s Greg, please, Mrs Jennings.”

She tutted.  Her marriage had not been blessed with children but if there was one thing she remembered about growing up with four younger siblings it was that boys tended to be hungry all the time, especially so when they were recovering.  Well, Mr Holmes didn’t quite fall into that category but then, he didn’t really fall into any category, but the handsome police officer – Greg –, who was now giving her this hopeful and very boyish smile, looked like a man who knew what was good for him.

“Now, we can’t have that. Let me see if I can throw something together for you, Greg.”  With that, she started whirling around in her kitchen empire to conjure up a proper breakfast for the starving convalescent. 

Greg ate it all up to the last bite and when he was finished, he sighed and said happily, “I honestly can’t remember the last time I’ve had such wonderful food. You really are a godsend, Mrs Jennings.”

She beamed, and when he confessed how much he had admired the beautiful kitchen the first night he was admitted into the house, even expressed his hopes of being allowed to cook for Mr Holmes and himself when she was away – not that he would dare disturb her organisation, let alone re-arrange anything, no, she would find everything just as she had left it, upon his honour –, he had found a new friend and was given permission to call her Maureen.

(“And to think I tickled his tummy not so long ago,” she told her sister later that evening, giggling like a young girl.)

Since there was something on his mind that needed to be done, something which required somebody’s assistance while he was partially immobilised and couldn’t move around freely, he ventured to ask if she would help him with a somewhat delicate matter. 

“Oh please, ask away!”  She patted his arm.

One of the spare bedrooms had been prepared for him when they had arrived the night before and Greg had not been up for an argument about that, not while being so tired that he could hardly keep his eyes open, not with his leg throbbing the way it did, so he had grudgingly put up with it.  However, it would not do to be this close to Mycroft, only to be sent away to his own room and not be allowed to touch.  He wasn’t a teenager anymore, he knew he wouldn’t come to serious bodily harm if he waited for a little while longer until his strangely hesitant Bonded would allow him to finally get his hands on him – for all of his teasing, Mycroft seemed to be waiting for something Greg hadn’t figured out yet – and doing clumsy acrobatics with his leg still in that sodding cast was definitely not on his hit list anyway, so wait he would, but be separately accommodated he wouldn’t.

“Well, you see, Mr Holmes has seen fit to move my things into one of the guest rooms so the, ah, healing process will not be disturbed, but really, a guest room? I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable, but…”

She tutted again.

“Of course you don’t want to sleep by yourself, and why should you? No man’s an island, and poor Mr Holmes works so much, such long hours, and he has to do all this travelling, and then he comes home to an empty house. It’s just not right,” she confided in him. “I’m happy he has found such a lovely companion, and don’t you let yourself be ordered around. I say his lonely nights are over, and the sooner he comes to accept it, the better for the both of you.”

They winked at each other, and when Mycroft came home that night, well after midnight, he found his bed occupied by a stubborn DI who informed him his previous lodgings had not been to his liking at all and he hadn’t given up his flat and moved into this house to be put into a guest room like a visitor.  It turned out Mycroft didn’t mind at all, instead he sat down on the bed to wrap his arms tightly around Greg.

“I was concerned I've been pushing you too much,” he murmured into his neck. “It was I who initiated the Bonding, and I made all the arrangements for your flat to be cleared upon your release from hospital, taking charge and bossing you around. It all happened so quickly and then I thought you’d prefer to have some space to yourself, to adjust. I was worried I had only taken my own wishes into consideration and never asked for your opinion.”

“Guess bossing around comes with the job,” Greg chuckled softly, rubbing his hands across Mycroft’s back. “But as you see, I’m not bossed that easily. I step back and look at things and make up my own mind, and then I get to work.”

“It was never my intention to push and shove and meddle, although, if you ask my brother, it’s what I do all the time.”

“I’m not asking him. Hell, I have to listen to Sherlock often enough, thank you very much.” A quick nibble above a starched collar elicited the tiniest of shudders which didn’t escape Greg’s attention. “Myc, didn’t you listen to what I said to you that day at the hospital? I don’t want to be away from you, and being in the same house but in another room is pretty much away by my standards. Besides,” he knocked on his cast, “there’s no pushing anything with this bloody thing still on, but will you let me sleep here, please?”

Mycroft found he couldn’t say no to those brown eyes, and so he simply nodded, and that was that.

When he re-emerged from the shower and climbed into bed next to Greg for the first time, dressed in a chaste silk pyjama, it took a little while to find a comfortable sleeping position without that heavy cast constantly getting in the way, but they managed, even kissed goodnight, shyly and awkwardly, and neither man remembered ever sleeping so well, and feel so safe and very much at home.

******

The day the cast came off, Mycroft and Greg met for lunch in a small and cosy restaurant not far away from the hospital, and while they were waiting for their food to be served, a plain white envelope was casually slipped across the table.  Greg took it and turned it in his hands.

“What’s this? The key code to your safe?”

“Mhm, not quite. You might still find it interesting, I hope.”

Inside was a folded sheet of paper, and it took a little while to fully grasp the message of the few meagre lines.  Mycroft’s lab results.  A clean medical bill.  Greg swallowed audibly.

“Does this mean what I think it means?”

“I have no doubt you know exactly what that means, Gregory. I would like us to be permanent, and exclusive. You and me, and nobody else. Ever.”  Then, with the barest hint of uncertainty, an afterthought.  “Unless you disagree?” 

A rude snort was the answer to that.

“You’re not seriously assuming I’ll be sleeping around? If I wanted that, I would never have Bonded with you! And besides, when was the last time you really looked at yourself in a mirror? Apart from shaving or adjusting one of those ridiculously expensive ties? Don’t be daft!”

The last lingering remains of a nagging doubt were shoved away, and relief and happiness washed over Mycroft.

“But Myc… I haven’t been tested yet, are you sure…”

“Oh but you have been,” the objection was cut off in mid-sentence.  “Your blood had to be tested before surgery was performed, as is standard procedure for any Were, and I took the liberty of adding a few more parameters to be checked. Easy, really.”

Greg grinned despite himself.

“You know, I should be royally pissed off at you for taking yet another liberty and make a decision without asking me, but for once, I don’t mind. All I care about right now is how to get you out of this blasted suit of yours so I can get my hands on your skin.”

Whatever the answer to that might have been, it was not given as the waiter chose this very moment to serve their food.  They both pecked at their lunch, suddenly not very hungry anymore, and after a while, Mycroft said, “Oh, and something else. About that weekend in Cornwall. It just so happened I was able to rid myself of a few appointments and obligations and have decided to take a few days of leave. So, unless you have other plans I thought we might spend this weekend in Cornwall before you’re declared fit for duty again. Some seaside air might do you good. And it might do me good to get back into a saddle again. It’s been a while.” Straight lips curved up in a sly little smile. “If I remember correctly, it wasn’t too long ago that you seemed quite interested in the idea of me on horseback. Riding boots and white trousers?”

A fork clattered down, the noise like a gunshot in the hushed atmosphere, earning its initiator a few reproachful looks.

_You teasing bastard._

It came across clearly, and Mycroft had to stifle a laugh.  Their Bond was growing stronger, and Greg was proving to be a quick learner.  True, he had been nervous at first, expecting never to be alone inside his own head anymore, but he soon learnt that wasn’t quite the case.  They could pull up their shields and deny each other access to purely intellectual goings-on, just as they had done before and as was essential for their respective lines of work. The main difference was that they could not actually shut each other out anymore.  What one felt, the other would pick up, and Reaching out became easier.  Right now, however, their shields were wide open, and Greg’s message came across so clearly he might as well have spoken it aloud.

“Don’t be crass, Gregory.”

“Shut up, Myc.”

“Although,” Mycroft mused, “I don’t actually wear white trousers outside of a polo tournament. I believe a pair of faded jeans will do just as well.”

“Does it matter what kind of trousers you wear as long as you have something powerful between your legs?”  Greg shot back, and as blue-and-grey eyes turned dark with hunger, he grinned smugly.  Two could play at that game.  Their ridiculous, chaste pyjama nights were over.  He would see to that.

******

Whatever Mycroft had expected to find upon his return from the office, it certainly wasn’t his brother who had chosen this very evening to talk Greg into letting him in on a case that had sparked his interest.  Forensic photos and lab findings were cluttered all over the coffee table – “Sherlock, do I want to know how you got your hands on the case file?” – and the consulting detective was talking a mile a minute, laying out his theories and deductions at lightning speed.  After weeks of being off duty and allowing his mind to meander along in blissfully unfocussed ways, it took a while for the DI to wrap his thoughts around a structured path again.  He thoughtfully picked up the photos one by one and listened as Sherlock’s findings poured down on him while at the same time he tried to familiarise himself with the case at hand.

“Sherlock, I’m still off duty until Monday. I can’t allow you to get involved behind Dimmock’s back.” He raised a hand as Sherlock drew in a deep breath, undoubtedly about to let off a heated stream of words about inept police officers and wasted time. “I know what you think about him, Holmes, but there are rules and regulations to be followed, whether you like them or not. I will not, and I repeat, will not mess with Dimmock’s investigation. If he chooses to not get you on board, then you will stay the fuck away from that case. Do you hear me?” he said sharply as those ever changing eyes angrily flared up. “I’ll see what I can do when I’m back, I promise, but I guess there’ll be plenty of paperwork and updates waiting for me. I don’t think your happiness will be my top priority Monday morning.”

It was that moment Mycroft chose to step into his sitting room.  His lazy glance swept over the photos of bloated bodies and close-ups of multiple stab wounds, and he heaved a dramatic sigh.

“I see. Dropped by for a chat, brother dear?” An eyebrow rose mockingly. “New Scotland Yard not complying with your demands?”

Sherlock all but snorted.

“Not with you keeping Lestrade away from work!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not keeping anybody away from work. Certainly Dr Watson has kept you updated on Gregory's health status?”

Greg closed his eyes.  And there they went at each other again, angry baritone battling well-modulated tenor for the last word.

“Boys, please. Can we not do this?”

Two pairs of eyes snapped towards him and the brothers said in the exact same tone, “Not do what?”  As Greg broke out laughing – really not that different, the Holmeses –, angry looks softened and frowns disappeared.  Sherlock puffed and started collecting photos and reports to stuff them back into the case folder, then turned to glare at Greg.

“We’re not done with this, Lestrade.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Sherlock stood and nodded towards the grand piano.

“Hanon’s Virtuoso Pianist? Daily warm-up exercises? Taking up playing again, Mycroft?”  A small smile crept into that deep voice.

“Never really stopped. Practise makes perfect, as you should know. I will not insult Chopin or Hummel by stumbling over octave leaps. Or Beethoven, for that matter.”  Trap set, bait laid out.

“Beethoven, huh?”  Indifference feigned.

“Rondo G major, to be precise. Not sure you remember the piece. Lovely, really.”  Such sweet bait.

Sherlock’s eyes met Mycroft’s, and the trap snapped shut.  Sherlock started grinning, case forgotten for a moment.

“Is that a challenge?”

A non-committal shrug.  “If you perceive it as such, you’re welcome to try.”

“Try. Indeed. Challenge accepted. Just tell me when and where.”

Their eyes met and held each other’s gaze, and as the first genuine smiles in a very long time spread across their faces, the atmosphere seemed to shift.  It was barely recognisable but it was there nevertheless.  Greg held his breath.

“Well then. I better get going as I clearly won’t be getting anywhere today.” 

Sherlock snatched the case file up and nodded at Greg.

“See you on Monday.”

“I expect so.”

Mycroft went to accompany Sherlock to the door, and as the echo of an incredulous exclamation of “Cornwall? Seriously?” was heard, Greg smirked and got up from the couch, hobbled over to the small bar to take two tumblers and poured some Glenlivet.  A soft rustling sound announced Mycroft’s return and Greg turned to watch him remove the tie, shrug out of his jacket and roll his shirtsleeves up.  He took the offered whisky gratefully, slipped out of his shoes, slumped down on the couch and drew his legs up.  Greg settled in comfortably in his corner.

“Everything handed over to Anthea? You’re good to go? Sure England will not cease to exist while you’re gone?”

“Anthea knows how to reach me in case of an emergency but I don’t expect England to crumble, no. My team actually is quite capable of handling a few days without me, much as I hate to admit it.”

They chatted for a while, talking about this and that, carefully avoiding the subject that hovered between them.  Then an expensive tumbler was set down on the coffee table and Mycroft gave Greg a searching look from under drooped eyelids.

“If I asked you to take me to bed now, would you?”

Finally.  As heat blazed up inside of him, Greg knew his eyes flashed like liquid amber.  Mycroft’s flared laser-blue in response, and all Greg managed to choke out was, “Dear God, yes, please, yes”, then he shot across the couch in one fluid movement, dropping his glass and ignoring his leg's protest, and hurled himself at Mycroft who had the air knocked out of his lungs by five foot ten and roughly twelve stone of Detective Inspector trying to crawl into him.  He found he didn’t mind being breathless and flat on his back, not when Greg’s warm tongue demanded entry into his mouth, not when slim hips rolled sensuously against his own.  He lowered his shield completely and allowed Greg’s desire wash over him, burn him up, gasped when Greg impatiently bucked against him.

“You are seriously overdressed, Holmes,” Greg murmured against his neck and nibbled his way along the jugular, chuckling delightedly as Mycroft twitched.  Ticklish, he remembered.  He pushed the starched collar aside, yanked the t-shirt underneath away and playfully bit down on Mycroft’s collarbone.  Mycroft hissed through clenched teeth and his hands slid down Greg’s sides to curl around strong flanks and pull him closer.  Greg hummed appreciatively, licked the side of Mycroft’s neck in one swift stroke and breathed, “Bed”. “Bed. Now.” Mycroft confirmed, and they scrambled off the couch rather inelegantly, grinning like teenagers at the sight of the bulges in their trousers.  Mycroft took Greg’s hand and pulled him along, up the stairs, into his, their, bedroom, while Greg leaned on him for support, crutches lying forgotten in the sitting room.

They took their sweet time undressing each other, savouring each moment, looking, caressing, touching.  A pale freckled torso was warm against a lightly tanned one, and stubbles drawn across smooth shoulders elicited delicious goosebumps.  Bespoke clothing fell unceremoniously to the floor to mix with cotton and denim, their respective owners too busy to care as they landed between Egyptian cotton sheets at last. Eager hands explored territory that was so familiar yet so excitingly unknown, tongues and mouths and fingers wandering, mapping, memorising, discovering.

When long, elegant fingers finally curled around his cock, Greg gritted his teeth and gave a stifled moan.

“Let me hear you, please,” Mycroft begged, “I want to hear the sounds you make.”

Greg had never been a particularly noisy lover, wasn’t into giving porn performances at all, and besides, he was usually the one in charge, concentrating on his partner, coaxing those sounds out of her… or him.  But he understood this was a Holmes thing, filing data away for future reference, so he obliged and supplied Mycroft with ample audio, sighing, moaning, pleading, and when Mycroft’s clever tongue slowly slid along the length of his cock, teasingly sucking it into his mouth, he made a choked sobbing sound he didn’t even recognize, was sure he had never made before.

“Oh God Myc, oh _fuck_ , please God you’re killing me, I fucking need… need… oh dear _fucking hell_!”

And Mycroft listened in rapt attention as Greg turned the air between them blue but then he let go of Greg’s cock, and for that he earned a frustrated wail.  He slid up his lover’s body to claim his mouth in a slow, unhurried kiss.  The click of a lube cap made Greg open his eyes and as he watched Mycroft slick up his fingers, he let his head fall back against the pillows and spread his legs wide, offering himself shamelessly.  At the first careful breach he sucked in his breath sharply, uncertain and a little uncomfortable, but then one finger was curled and touched him just so, and Greg let out a low, husky moan, the filthiest and sexiest sound Mycroft had ever heard.  He had to grab his own cock by the base, not wanting to come just yet, not like that, without even having been inside his lover so he pressed down sharply, stifling the orgasm that threatened to creep up on him.

“Please Myc, don’t be such a fucking tease, please, I need your cock now, oh God _please_ , I want you so fucking much _please holy fuck Mycroft_ ,” Greg panted desperately.  And when Mycroft finally, slowly, oh so fucking slowly started pushing inside, Greg’s arms came around his neck, hands cupping the back of his head, and he pulled him into a thorough kiss, tongues playing lazily with each other, their bodies relaxing, making the intrusion easier for both of them.  Greg broke the kiss when Mycroft was seated deep inside him and as Mycroft began to push and retreat, push and retreat, one of Greg’s hands snaked between them to grab his own cock, pleasuring himself. When that soft, velvety voice finally, at long last, broke, “ah _fuck_ Gregory”, his last bit of self-control left him and he shuddered through an orgasm so sweet and hard that all he could do was wrap himself around Mycroft and wait for his heartbeat to slow down.


	9. Chapter 9

The Fox liked Cornwall in autumn.  He liked the country home, too.  Sadly, it had been raining since the moment they arrived, and yet Greg insisted on Shifting, claiming it was because he hadn’t done so for too long and anyway, it would be easier and quicker to develop a feeling of home if the distinct smells and sensations were imprinted on his keen Fox senses.  However, the barely suppressed excitement in those amber fox eyes told a different story, and Mycroft suspected getting to know the actual house was second on Greg’s list of things to be done.  As soon as the back door that led into a beautiful garden was opened, the Fox dashed outside to start a thorough investigation of hedgerows and flower beds and shrubs that held a vast array of birds to be chased and a few interesting rabbit holes to be explored.  Mycroft harboured the suspicion, no, he was certain that he was going to become quite the expert Fox groomer, and Greg was doing it on purpose, too. 

Shaking his head, he went upstairs to unpack.  Not that there was a lot to unpack – it was to be an extended weekend without any appointments or events to take into consideration, and Greg had made it abundantly clear that he intended to spend a large portion of it in bed, preferably without clothes, a concept to which no objections were raised on Mycroft’s behalf, and so there were only the contents of two small trolleys to be placed into the generous walk-in closet, and toiletries to be put into the equally generous bathroom.  Mycroft grinned to himself as he looked at the luxurious walk-in shower he had had installed not too long ago, in a fit of what had seemed shameless over-indulgence back then, but he would make sure it would be put to good use during the course of that weekend.  He was fairly certain Greg would approve.

He whistled to himself when he walked down the stairs to inspect the kitchen.  The refrigerator had been restocked, and in the sitting room he found the fireplace had been prepared to be used, too.  Anthea was indispensable to most parts of his life, highly professional and extraordinarily efficient, his second in command, but Mrs Jennings and her brothers were quintessential when it came to making a functioning household a home.  Undoubtedly Mr Graham, the youngest brother, had received ample instructions as soon as she had helped Greg plot the bedroom ambush, shrewdly anticipating and thoughtfully planning ahead for a weekend trip to Cornwall.  _Maureen_ _indeed_.  On first name basis after only one day of moving in.  No such offer had ever been made to him but then, he didn’t possess Greg’s charms and easy manners and he doubted he would ever manage that melting look that his Bonded had such masterful and shameless command of.

A single short bark in a high-pitched voice made him look up sharply, but neither pain nor fear were Transmitted so Mycroft fetched his waxed jacket and waterproof cap before stepping outside.  With long strides he walked across the lawn, calling Greg’s name, and when he found him, he doubled over with laughter.  His graceful silver fox was sitting next to a small puddle, covered in mud, ears flat against his head, a miserable wet little mass of fur glaring at him.

******

The garden was even better than expected.  A lush lawn, flower beds laid out with expertise and love for detail, and oh, shrubs most beautifully arranged in groups that he happily squeezed through for a preliminary inventory check.  Wait, what was that?  A quick movement caught his eye.  A rabbit whose afternoon nap had been disturbed shot across the lawn from underneath the bushes, and Greg, forgetting about his weak leg, was right behind it.  Not with the intent to kill but solely for the fun of running.  He slithered around one of the flower patches when his right hindleg gave out, not able to steady his weight at that angle, lost his balance for the fraction of a moment but it was enough to send him sliding down the small slope that was slippery from the rain, and with a surprised bark he landed in a small muddy puddle.  Oh the sheer mortification of it!  To be covered in mud like a pup.  Mycroft would be beside himself, neat freak that he was.  He struggled out of the mud, vigorously shaking himself and sat down to think about how to sneak into the small shower room he had seen downstairs.  If only he had taken a little more time to familiarise himself with the house before Shifting and running outside.  _Damn_.  And here he was, Mycroft, strolling across the lawn in a waxed jacket and a ridiculous cap.  _Bloody Hell_.  Impossible to hide now.  He hung his head and flattened his ears, trying his best to look apologetic, but as Mycroft started laughing, he looked up and glared. 

_Funny, yeah?_

“Very much so. Really, Gregory, you should see yourself. Oh no,” Greg was snatched up almost in mid-air, “you will not put your malicious little revenge plan into practice and run into the house all covered in mud.”

_Well deduced, that._

“No specific deduction necessary here. Your intention was written all over you.”

With no chance to escape the iron grip with which he was pressed against Mycroft’s chest, an embarrassed muddy Fox was carried back into the house and placed into the bathtub of the small downstairs shower room.

“Sit,” Mycroft commanded in a voice that didn’t invite a reply. “Don’t move. Don’t Shift. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Greg obediently sat down although the thought of Shifting anyway danced through his mind.  He was not a pet, after all, he bloody well knew how to take a shower by himself, thank you, but then again, the idea of a good rub-down had its appeal.  So he waited.  When Mycroft returned, he was armed with fluffy towels, a bathrobe and something that smelled like shampoo.  Ears pricked up in interest.  That didn’t look too bad at all, might be worth the embarrassment.  As warm water rained down on him and strong hands massaged shampoo into his dirty fur, he decided being treated like a pet every now and then wasn’t really such a blow to his dignity.  When there was no more mud coming out of his fur, he was asked to “shake, please”, and Mycroft stepped back to avoid getting wet himself.  Greg was lifted out of the bathtub, placed on one of the towels, Mycroft knelt next to him and started rubbing him down with another towel, gently but thoroughly, and he shamelessly leaned into the touch, closing his eyes in bliss.

 _Wonderful_.

“Don’t make a habit out of it. Please.”

When the Fox was dry enough – much too soon – Mycroft stood and said, “It’s up to you whether you’d prefer to Shift now, that’s why I brought the bathrobe, or whether you’d rather keep your fur on for a little while longer. I’m starting the fire now and you’re welcome to join me on the couch.”

He bent down to playfully tug at one of the black ears, went into the sitting room and Greg heard him rummage around the fireplace.  The decision was made quickly.  Fox it was.  He hadn’t been on four legs for too long, and the prospect of curling up next to Mycroft was too tempting.  Both sides of his being needed to be with his Bonded and right now, he needed to fuel up on his favourite scent of all, so he padded into the sitting room, sat down next to the fireplace and watched as Mycroft got the flames going.

“Now excuse me for a moment, I'd like some tea. Please refrain from getting onto the couch for just one more moment, I’d like to put a blanket on it first so your not-quite-dry-yet fur won’t ruin the upholstery. Don’t glare, Gregory.”  An eyebrow was arched.  “I know that look. Yes, I’m fussing but I so detest wet cushions.”

If a fox could snigger, Greg would be doing just that.  Fussy indeed.  Still, it was nice sitting by the fireplace.  The small fire radiated comfortable warmth, not too hot, just right, and he sighed contentedly.  _Warmth. Home._   Perfect.  After a few minutes Mycroft returned from the kitchen with a tray that held a small teapot, a delicate china cup and a bowl of water for the Fox. He placed the bowl on the floor and the tea set on the coffee table, spread a blanket and a towel on the couch and sat down with a newspaper.  A small remote control made soft music come to life, and after Greg had lapped up most of the water, he gave the couch a pointed stare. Mycroft smiled and patted the little nest he had prepared.

“Come on then, you wettish little rascal. But I will not put the newspaper down for you.”

Greg hopped up and curled himself up as close to his Bonded as he could and put his muzzle on his thigh, and let _Home. Happiness._ flow through the Bond. The newspaper was not put down, but it was folded neatly so it could be held with one hand while the other came to lie on damp fur and fingers started scratching between shoulderblades.  They sat like this for a while, enjoying a rare enough moment of blissful peace and quiet, but then Greg nudged Mycroft’s thigh.

_Care to show me the house now?_

“Are you sure you’re done chasing rabbits for now? No more puddles to explore?”

_Myc._

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I honestly cannot remember the last time I laughed that much, and although it was entirely at your expense, for which I apologise, it felt good.”

Mycroft put the newspaper on the coffee table and hugged his fox close.

“Being with you makes me happier than words can say. I’m beginning to realise how lonely I’ve been all these years.”

_Same here._

A wet nose pressed itself against Mycroft’s neck, and Greg inhaled deeply.  He would never get enough of this, that exquisite mix of expensive fabric, subtle cologne and Mycroft, it was imprinted in his system and he would recognize it anywhere.  Even his human nose picked it up.  They both sighed, then Mycroft gently put his fox down and rose to start the tour.

The ground floor consisted of something of a reception hall, a drawing room – “hardly ever use those, I try to keep all official business away from here” –, the sitting room – _Why is there no piano, by the way?_   “We might have to change that.” _We might._ –, the kitchen with a small adjacent breakfast room, a small pantry, shower room with a small bath tub, separate wc and two guest rooms.  Upstairs, two more guest rooms, a bathroom, the master bedroom– _Who needs such a big bed?_ “We will, I hope. If I remember correctly, you had plans of spending entire days in bed.” – with en-suite dressing room and… a second, and huge bathroom.

_Fuck. Me._

“Language, Gregory, please.”

_What is that?_

“That’s a shower. And a bathtub.”

 _That’s debauched._ “And I intend to do sinful things with you in here.”

The Shift was done so quickly that Mycroft’s smirk had just begun to form on his lips when he was pulled against a gloriously naked body.  His hands found their way to Greg’s hips, slim, warm, pressing into him, then snaked around to be placed against the small of his back and on a delightfully firm buttock.  Greg wrapped one arm around Mycroft’s neck and started tugging at his shirt with his free hand.

“Too many layers, my love,” he murmured against his lips. “You might want to get rid of them unless you want them soaked.”

Mycroft gave a half-hearted protest. “Gregory, you just showered,” but he chuckled while mock-protesting and didn’t do anything to prevent his shirt from being unbuttoned.

“Wrong. You hosed the Fox down and rubbed him dry. It’s my turn now.” Gone was the shirt, and Mycroft obediently raised his arms so the t-shirt could be removed as well. “I need to learn how to make the best use of this ridiculous amount of showerheads, and what better way to learn than hands-on?”  He sank to his knees to remove shoes and socks, and started to unzip the fly of the navy Chinos.  “Speaking of hands-on,” a very naughty smirk as the trousers were pulled down teasingly slow to reveal an interesting bulge, “someone’s aching to be touched, yes?”, and a light bite was applied to the outline of a rapidly hardening cock to which an audible gasp was the answer.  A pair of black hipsters followed the Chinos to the ground and was swiftly stepped out of, and Greg shimmied up his lover’s tall frame with a lithe grace that took Mycroft’s breath away.  Not too long ago that powerful body had been beaten and abused, and now he was here with him, almost healed with the exception of his right leg that was still weak but even the limp was improving by the day.  A Were’s healing powers were amazing indeed.  Mycroft wrapped his arms tightly around Greg, grateful and giddy at the same time, his feelings Transmitting clearly through their Bond, and Greg answered by melting into the embrace, nibbling at the column of Mycroft’s neck, eliciting soft moans of pleasure.  Now it was Greg’s turn to chuckle, and he nudged Mycroft towards the generous walk-in shower.

“Time to play.”

They stepped inside, and when the lateral jets started spraying and warm water rained down from the showerheads at the ceiling, Greg spread his arms and legs wide and laughed with delight.

“This is fucking decadent! I could stay in here for days!”

He caught Mycroft’s amused eyes, crooked his index finger and beckoned.  Mycroft couldn’t have resisted if his life depended on it and he willingly let himself be pulled into a hungry kiss, pressed against an equally hungry body.  Greg’s tongue slid over his, luring it into his own mouth, sucking teasingly, and Mycroft’s answered with a playful swirl, tickling the roof of his mouth.  Greg broke the kiss at that, laughing breathlessly.  He let his lips travel along Mycroft’s neck, nibbling at his ticklish spot, licking down until he reached the spot where neck met shoulder, and there he bit down, unable to resist the rather primitive urge to mark his lover.  Mycroft’s head fell back, recognizing the gesture for what it was, welcoming it.  The mark would be well-hidden beneath his shirt, no-one would see but he would know it was there, and he enjoyed the feeling of Greg’s lips sucking on his skin.  He made a small whimpering sound, his cock reacted with a distinct twitch and Greg gave a smug growl.  It was like a wonder to have such power over Mycroft Holmes, to make him react the way he did, to be able to coax those little sounds of desire out of the otherwise so controlled man, and he made a pact with himself that he would make Mycroft beg and plead just as he himself had during their first lovemaking.  He wanted to hear the sounds Mycroft made just as much as Mycroft had wanted to hear Greg’s.

He continued his travel down Mycroft’s body, licking and sucking his way along the slim pale torso, took a sensitive nipple between his lips and sucked on it, smiling mischievously at the gasp it called forth.  He was getting so hard he was beginning to ache, but right now, this wasn’t about him.  He wouldn’t spontaneously burst and he would get to his release eventually, but first, he would tend to Mycroft’s needs and wants, wanted to play him like the beautiful instrument he was.  He sank to his knees once more and placed another mark on the inside of Mycroft’s thigh.  Long fingers grabbed his hair, not pulling but steadying, and Mycroft asked in a hoarse voice that sounded so unlike himself, “What are you doing to me, Gregory?” 

Greg looked up with a wicked glint in his eyes.  “Can’t you deduce it for yourself? Want to ring your brother for a hint?”

Mycroft managed a small laugh at that.  “Only you would bring up Sherlock now.”

“I’m more interested in bringing something else up.”  With that, he licked along Mycroft’s shaft from base to top, a long, catlike lick, and all thoughts of annoying younger brothers died down as Greg took Mycroft’s cock in his mouth, relaxing his throat, swallowing deep which brought out a strangled sob and an involuntary jerk.  Greg placed his hands on Mycroft’s hips to steady him so he would be in control, and got to work. 

The warm water spraying on their bodies, the sight of his lover on his knees before him, the slick, hot tightness engulfing his cock was causing something of a sensory overload that even a Holmes brain was not able to process or file away properly, and Mycroft felt he was approaching orgasm faster than he would have wished for but he couldn’t stop himself.  One of Greg’s hands came away from his hips and palmed his balls, as if to assess, and Mycroft made that strangled sound again, “please please Gregory… I can’t… just please, oh dear God please, I’m going to…”  He seized Greg’s hair as if to yank him away as he felt his balls tighten but Greg refused to let go.  Instead, he placed both hands on Mycroft’s hips again, looked up into Mycroft’s face and hollowed his cheeks, making a humming sound at the back of his throat that shot like a lightning bolt through Mycroft’s cock, and he hummed again, appreciatively, as Mycroft let go and came with a barely suppressed groan, shuddering.  Greg swallowed, watching all the while, and licked the last drops away before he rose and wrapped his arms around Mycroft.

“You are exquisite, Mycroft Holmes,” he murmured against his neck, “you are beautiful when you come, do you know that?”

For once, Mycroft was at a loss for words so he cupped Greg’s face with his hands and pulled him into a kiss, tasting himself on his lover’s tongue, overwhelmed by the feral pleasure it gave him.  They stood like this for a bit, then Mycroft playfully bit Greg’s earlobe and in a low voice said, “Might I suggest retreating to the bedroom for, ah, reciprocation? Before we’re all wrinkled and shrivelled into oblivion?”

Greg grunted his approval, so the jets were switched off and upon stepping out of the shower, a fluffy towel was flung at Mycroft, “dry yourself up first, you know, wet cushions and such”.  Mycroft raised an eyebrow at having his own words quoted back at him but did as he was told.  Then he grabbed Greg’s wrist and all but hauled him into the master bedroom.  Greg laughingly let himself be pushed back against soft pillows, but simple reciprocation was not on his mind.  He was in a playful mood and on a mission, too.  He would get to hear the sounds he wanted to hear, and if he had to exert some more self-control, so be it.

Strong, capable hands roamed Mycroft’s body, stroking, scratching, grabbing, tickling, worshipping, teasing.  An equally capable and very wicked tongue contributed its share to reducing the eloquent and articulate politician to incoherencies, and soon the haughty man who with the mere lift of an eyebrow could destroy entire careers found himself begging for mercy from a police officer who had brought some of London’s most dangerous criminals down through sheer doggedness and meticulous preparation, and who seemed determined to apply both these qualities to his current mission.

“Dear God, Gregory, what must I do to make you stop torturing me?”

Greg moaned against Mycroft’s mouth.  He was done playing.

“Lord help me, but I want to fuck you, Myc, I want to fuck you so bad. Will you let me, please?”

Mycroft’s pupils blew wide.  It had been ages since he had allowed anyone to breach him but at the husky sound of his lover’s voice he thought there was nothing on this planet he wanted more than to be had by this man, so he merely asked, “How do you want me?”  Greg swallowed.  “Would you… would you turn around? Please?”  Mycroft looked at him, a slow, naughty smirk spreading on his face and a choked sound escaped Greg’s lips.  Mycroft reached for the bedside table’s drawer to offer a lube bottle, then he turned around and lifted his hips invitingly.  With the same diligence he had employed to coax the sounds he wanted to hear, Greg started to prepare him and it wasn’t long before Mycroft started begging again.  Greg’s fingers were gentle as he stretched him, sparking desire and pure want and when Greg found his prostate, he gave a sharp cry, let his forehead drop on his arms and spread his knees wide, not caring how wanton it made him look.  He was completely hard again and he wanted so much he was aching.

“For the sake of crying out fucking loud, will you _fuck_ me now, Greg!”

Hearing those swearwords out of Mycroft Holmes’ mouth, and being called Greg, not Gregory, in a voice that was raw with need, caused a fuse to blow in Greg’s brain.  He grabbed Mycroft’s hips and pushed all the way in, forgetting about being gentle and careful.  Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath but that was exactly what he had wanted, and the pain at the sudden intrusion ebbed away quickly when Greg bit down on his trapezius, distracting him oh so wonderfully.  It was overwhelming, and it was perfect.  He palmed his own cock and started fucking into his fist in rhythm with Greg’s strokes.  Greg reached around and joined hands with him, managing enough of his fine motor skills to rub his thumb over the leaking cockhead.  Mycroft started whimpering and came in hot, violent bursts all over their hands and with a hoarse shout Greg joined him.

When their panting slowed down, they went boneless together, dropping sideways, fucked-out bliss and sated bodies.

“Mmmhh, don’t want to move for the next three days,” Greg mumbled into Mycroft’s shoulder.  A low chuckle, then, “It’s going to be terribly sticky and rather uncomfortable unless one of us agrees to move.”  Greg harrumphed.  “Wet cushions are your responsibility, you fussy Holmes. Not my division.”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder. “What is your division then?”

An image of Sherlock flinging these exact same words at him only a few weeks ago rose up in Greg’s mind and he Projected exactly that, and was rewarded a mischievous grin.

“Shagging me has become your division?”

“My top priority. If you don’t mind. Sir.”

“Not at all, Detective Inspector. But please do excuse me for a moment while I, ah, clean up a little.”

Greg let him go, unwillingly and after stealing a few more kisses, but didn’t object to a towel being thrown at him that had somehow made its way from their shower orgy into the bedroom.  He wiped his hands and his cock and waited for Mycroft to come back so he could wrap himself around him again and fall asleep with him in his arms.

******

They spent the entire next day in bed and only got up when they felt hungry or thirsty, or when nature’s calls needed to be answered.  Mycroft didn’t glance at his BlackBerry, not once, it was unheard of, and Greg thoroughly enjoyed having him all for himself.  They made love slowly, they made love passionately, they fucked, they joked about the need to make up for years spent in self-imposed chastity and laughed about the discrepancy of being horny like teenagers but having the bodies of men in their forties, and basked in the love they had found in each other.

Greg Shifted a couple of times because he wanted to file away even the slightest nuance of the scent of their lovemaking, the sweat on Mycroft’s skin, their combined scents on the sheets.  He let himself be cuddled as Mycroft played with the Fox’ big black ears, stroked the soft fur, rubbed the thickly padded paws.  They napped with Mycroft’s hands buried in thick, plush underfur, and woke up with Mycroft’s hands on warm skin, Greg pressing against him shamelessly.

During one of their short little trips to the kitchen, Greg asked a question that had been gnawing at him for weeks.

“Remember the day you came to see me at the Yard, when I had just finished that Bishop interrogation?"

“Was that the day I told you about polo?”

“When you teased the hell out of me with your stories about horses and white trousers and riding boots? Yeah, that day.”

“Mmh, yes, I remember. I might have mentioned leg cues and so forth. By the way, do you find my leg cues to be satisfactory?”

An apple slice flew across the table and Mycroft tsked.

“Gregory, no food fight, please. That’s so juvenile.”  The apple slice was neatly cut in half and quickly disposed of.  “What about that day?”

“Well, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you ever since. That bloke was really yelling at me, you know, foul-mouthed and abusive, and then suddenly he went all quiet and looked like someone had just walked over his grave. I couldn’t figure out what had happened back then but now I think, well…” he broke off, not sure how to phrase it without sounding like an idiot. 

Mycroft looked at him expectantly, one eyebrow arched.  “Now you think… what?”

“Did you have anything to do with that? Can you just, ah, _Think_ at others, even if you’re not Linked? Is that even possible? I mean, you helped me Shift when I couldn’t, and that’s not normal, right? John told me he can’t do that, and he’s a pretty strong Anchor, too. Guess he has to be, being Bonded to Sherlock and all, but he said not every Anchor can do that.”

“Would it suffice if I told you my government post comes with certain – other duties? And to perform these duties, certain abilities are a key prerequisite, abilities that need to be trained to perfection.”

Greg groaned.  “Are you telling me you occupy a minor post in some mysterious Anchor brethren that involves robes and ceremonial swords and Thinking at each other?”

“An educated guess, but not a bad one. No robes, however.”

“But swords?”

A smile.

“Really? Swords?”

“Umbrella, Gregory. I have it with me almost all the time, and for a reason. It’s got a Malacca handle, by the way, did you know Malacca wood was the most commonly used material for swordsticks?”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Not at the moment, but I’d dearly love you to hold that thought.”

Before he could control himself, Greg started giggling like a schoolboy.  He wasn’t sure whether it was caused by the idea of Mycroft Holmes’ umbrella being a concealed sword, or whether it could be blamed on the nonchalance with which he had just been informed that his Bonded, Mr Bespoke Three Piece Suit, Mycroft bloody Holmes, was about ready for another round.  He wasn’t quite done with his interrogation, however.

“You haven’t answered my question. Did you have anything to do with Bishop suddenly being all silent? Did you Think something at him?”

A theatrical sigh.  “Yes, if that’s how you want to put it, yes, I Thought something at him. It was a brief thought, no elaborate death threat or anything. I was merely offering my view on things.”

“Do you do that a lot? I mean, can you actually control people, like, influence them and stop them from doing stuff?”

Mycroft gave him a horrified look.  “Gregory! Are you asking me whether I play with other people’s minds?”

Greg shrugged.  “Sort of, yeah.”

“That would be unethical! We’re bound to strict rules, a moral code of conduct that expressly forbids mindgames such as the one you’re implying. If an Anchor ever abuses his or her power, then he or she must answer the Council, and may even be stripped of all powers. And I’m not talking about hierarchical power, but those of an Anchor. But to answer your question, yes, I can Reach out to every Were and Shifter, even to animals, yes, I can Project to them. But I will not, and I repeat, will not intrude anybody’s mind uninvited. If somebody who is dear to me is being put in danger, or threatened, yes, I may and will issue a warning. That’s all. No unbidden mind-reading, no, that would be unspeakable!”

Greg had become quite still.  That was quite a bit of information to process, and Mycroft shot him a questioning look.

“What is it?”

“How can you live like that? Having to control yourself all the time? Playing all your political games? Not being allowed to cut in if you catch something that is clearly wrong? Never saying what you want to say? And you can’t even think what you want because if you don’t have your shield in place, somebody else might catch a piece of your thoughts. Don’t you ever want to lash out?”

“I don’t… really think about it anymore. I’m so used to having my shield up all the time, I hardly ever notice. I just can’t afford letting anything through.”

“Doesn’t it kill you inside?”

“It might have. Well, not necessarily kill me, I do have a healthy sense of self-preservation, but it might have made me dry up and shrivel one day.”

“But?”

“But I met you,” Mycroft said simply and pulled him close. “No need for shields to be up when I’m with you. Not ever. You know I must keep certain things confidential, but other than that, when I’m with you, I can let go.”

There was not an awful lot to reply to that, so Greg cupped his face with his hands and kissed his beautiful straight-lipped mouth.

******

On the third day Mycroft took his silver fox to meet Gemma who turned out to be a chestnut mare, “my old polo pony, sadly in no shape to ride tournaments any longer but we’re still friends. Whenever I’m here, we go for a little ride and remember our golden times together.” 

A former polo champion and military man by the name of Denholm Harrington took care of her during Mycroft’s absences and although his former RMC mate ranked among what he might call friends, Mycroft was secretly happy he had chosen this weekend to travel up north to inspect two polo ponies he was interested in acquiring.  It might seem selfish but he wanted no other company than that of one Greg Lestrade, and he quickly took Gemma outside to saddle her, and introduce her to Greg who had patiently waited before the stable entrance.  Mycroft reached to touch her forehead and something seemed to pass between them because the mare lowered her head to nuzzle the Fox’ shoulders.  Greg pricked up his ears and Projected _Friend._ towards the horse.  He wasn’t sure if his message was received but the mare whinnied softly, and Mycroft smiled.

“Now that is settled, what do you think about going for a ride? Do you think your leg’s up for it?”

Greg barked excitedly.  His leg hadn’t regained its full strength yet and he still limped a little when he got tired, but he wasn’t in pain anymore and certainly a quick run through the crisp autumn air wouldn’t hurt.

Mycroft laughed and swung himself into the saddle.  He let Gemma walk until they lost sight of Harrington’s stable buildings, then he urged her into an easy canter, enjoying the brisk air and the feeling of being on horseback again.  There were not a lot of things he regretted sacrificing for his career, but riding was one of them.  It had stung when he realized he couldn’t keep up his ambitious polo training schedule if he wanted to work at a level where things became interesting, so he had stepped down from his preferred position in his team and had grudgingly come to accept that his time of being a competitive polo player was over, that it would have to be a mere hobby and nothing more. 

He walked Gemma through a few basic exercises, cantering large and small circles, breaking left and right, doing quick stops and turns, and they quickly fell into their old routine, if not at their old level, but both horse and rider enjoyed working together as they used to.  Mycroft almost regretted not bringing his mallet.

Greg, in the meantime, was busy exploring the countryside, taking his time catching up.  He was in no shape running along a galloping horse over a long distance, even if Gemma’s canter was no racing speed, but his leg still was too weak and he didn’t want to endanger the healing process.  So he trotted at a leisurely pace, stopped here and there to snuffle and explore, all the while keeping an eye on Gemma and Mycroft.  He caught up with them while they were going through some drills he didn’t recognize but thought they must be polo exercises.  He sat down to watch, enjoying the feeling of his fur being ruffled by the crisp autumn breeze, admiring the well-rehearsed routine of horse and rider.

Mycroft dismounted gracefully and strode towards Greg, grinning.

“Dear me – what an impressive collection of twigs you carry with you. I trust you had a good time, then?”

_Just you wait until I’m back in shape. Might bring a few chicken in, too._

“Oh no, we won’t have poaching around here.”

He knelt to scratch behind the Fox’ ears, and Greg closed his eyes. _Yesss_.

“Care to go home? How’s your leg? Would you like to join me on horseback?”

The Fox growled at that.  He was no pet to be carried around in a fashion bag.  He had made it here, and he would make it back again.  And if he had to walk, then so be it.

“Gregory, please. While I appreciate your fierce sense of independence, please do keep in mind that you will have to be back at work the day after tomorrow. If you overexert your leg, you will only be stuck with loads of paperwork to catch up with, and no real policework to sweeten the pain of bureaucracy.”

Greg huffed at that but he had to admit it made sense.  He hated paperwork, and he knew there’d be piles and piles waiting for him.  He sighed.

_Alright then._

Mycroft smiled and picked him up, cradling him against his chest until he was back in the saddle.  There, he placed his fox between his legs and held him with one hand so he wouldn’t fall off.  Gemma didn’t seem to mind, and after he had overcome the blow to his pride, Greg found he actually liked being on horseback.  There was something soothing about the horse’s steady movement and her smell, but nothing beat being this close to Mycroft.  As a matter of fact, while he strongly objected being treated like a pet, it wasn’t all that bad being Mycroft’s pet every now and then.  The shower after the mud-bath hadn’t been unpleasant at all, and he was already looking forward to being groomed.

That thought must have seeped through somehow because he felt a low chuckle vibrate in Mycroft’s chest.

“You’re really quite an abominable little creature. Yes, there will be grooming when we get home, I promise.”

Greg flung his head against him.

 _Good_.

******

Their weekend was over too soon, and Sunday afternoon found them packing their trolleys and heading back to London.  Greg drove so Mycroft could catch up with his e-mails and even ring Anthea for a quick briefing that consisted mainly of monosyllabic replies and non-committal sounds at Mycroft’s end… minor government business issues, of that Greg was sure.  He sighed and stole a glance.  Mycroft caught him looking and though he was already back in politician mode, his eyes softened and he brushed Greg’s knuckles lightly with his little finger.  Greg hummed happily. 

There would be more Cornwall weekends.  Christmas was coming up, too.  He would not be volunteering to work the holidays this year, and maybe the British Government and the mysterious Anchor brethren would grant their minor official some time off as well.


	10. Chapter 10

Sally Donovan entered her boss‘ office just before noon and stopped dead in her tracks.  The man sitting at Lestrade’s desk, wearing a tweed suit and a matching scarf, already busy catching up on his paperwork, did bear some resemblance to the man she had last seen in hospital but that was about it.  He looked well-rested, cheerful even, his skin had lost its pallor and the bags under his eyes were gone which made him look a good five years younger.  She had only seen him from a distance upon his arrival, noticed the limp had almost gone, barely noticeable as he followed the superintendent into his office, but hadn’t had a chance to welcome him back, having been busy preparing an upcoming interrogation.  If she hadn’t seen him beaten up with his leg in a cast only a few weeks ago, she would have sworn he had been on a holiday rather than the hospital.  And there was something else to him, too, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

He looked up from his paperwork and smiled at her.

“Good morning, Sally. Been dragging all unfinished paperwork into my office while I was gone?”

She returned the smile.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector. Good to have you back. A lot’s been happening and believe me, Dimmock is more than happy to hand Sherlock Holmes back into your care.”

“Ah, Sherlock.”  Lestrade grinned, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head.  “What’s he been up to? He paid me a surprise visit last week, telling me about this case Dimmock’s been working on?”

“Oh, that. Good Lord, I swear Dimmock was ready to kill him.”

She launched into a detailed and graphic description, getting him back on track of both the actual goings-on and some of the station gossip, too.  Lestrade chuckled at some of the stories and reached to take his scarf off.  Sally’s eyes went wide as saucers and she tried very hard not to stare at the purple mark right above the shirt collar.  Lestrade noticed her pointed not-stare, hastily grabbed the scarf and wrapped it around his neck again, mortified.

“Not a word about this, Sally, do you hear me?” he warned, but grinned in spite of himself.

She realised that what she had noticed earlier but had not been able to place was the fact that he looked well-shagged.  Thoroughly shagged, truth be told.

“Well, sir, I hear you’ve moved house, too? You never mentioned you were looking for a new flat, so what brought it on? If I may ask,” she added politely but couldn’t quite suppress the smirk.  He tried very hard to give her a stern look as his private life was really none of her business and she was in no position to ask such questions, but he couldn’t find it in him to rebuke her for it.  Not while he was still feeling so happy and untroubled.

“That’s right, I wasn’t actually looking for a new flat but when the opportunity presented itself, I didn’t say no,” he replied instead, somewhat evasively, desperately hoping his new address hadn’t leaked out yet.  He wouldn’t hear the end of it once his team found out.  Sally’s smirk widened but she decided not to press any further.  She might be as curious as the next person but she knew when to stop asking.  She would find out soon enough anyway and mentally went through her sources.

“So, now that you’re back, care to join us for lunch before the daily grind catches up with you again?” she offered.  He shook his head apologetically.

“Thanks for the offer but I already have a lunch appointment. Maybe after work for a round at the pub?”

“That’d be nice, sir. And again, it’s good to have you back on board, and I mean it, too.”

“Thanks, Sally. Believe it or not, it does feel good to be back. You might have to remind me of that in a few days, but right now I’m actually looking forward to doing some work again. Although I might have to rely on you to do some of my legwork for the next couple of weeks.”

“That’s quite alright, as long as you will take the freak off my shoulders.”  She rose to leave the office when she saw a tall figure approaching Lestrade’s office.

“Sir, it seems you might be late for your lunch appointment. Freak’s brother is coming this way. Wonder what’s up now,” she muttered and turned to Lestrade, just in time to see his eyes light up at the sight of the older Holmes.  Her head snapped around to look at Mycroft Holmes whose haughty features softened as his eyes met Lestrade’s.  Neither man said a word but they didn’t have to, the total lack of formality giving them away more than anything else might have. 

Sally stared, slightly agape, not caring how impolite it made her appear.  She took in the warm glance in a pair of eyes that had never looked anything other than indifferent or mildly polite at best, the slight upward curve of straight lips, the ever nonchalant posture that seemed to have an especially languorous quality to it, and it was that last observation that truly hit home.  Mycroft Holmes’ body language radiated satiation as much as Lestrade’s did – in fact, they both had that well-shagged air about them, which made them… lovers?  Her boss and the freak’s creepy brother?

Amused blue-and-grey eyes turned towards her and Mycroft’s well-modulated voice reached her ears through what felt like cotton.

“Sergeant Donovan. I hope I’m not interrupting anything? I was intending to steal the Detective Inspector away in the hope that he might join me for lunch, if you don’t mind and if work permits.”

A choked gasp escaped her lips, she clasped both hands over her mouth, and Sally Donovan, ambitious and fearless policewoman on her way up the career ladder, not afraid of taking down some of London’s most violent criminals or even battling Sherlock Holmes, turned on her heels and fled.

“That went well,” Mycroft observed casually. “Your first day at work might turn out a little more challenging than you had expected.”

Greg closed his eyes.  “That might be the understatement of the year.”

He got up from behind his desk and went to get his coat.

“Let’s go so I can have one last peaceful meal before all hell breaks loose.”  He winked at Mycroft.  “And don’t you think about holding my hand on the way out.”

******

On a Saturday night the week before Christmas, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stood before the frontgate to Mycroft Holmes’ townhouse.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” muttered Sherlock, absent-mindedly stroking the violin case he held cradled against his chest.  John shot him an amused look.

“Come on now, Sherlock, this is not going to hurt. Dinner and wine and some conversation? And some music?”

“That’s the point. Dinner and conversation at Mycroft’s? What has the world come to?”

“You were the one who accepted the musical challenge, and actually it was Greg who invited us for dinner, not your brother. Come now, it’ll be alright.”

The gate buzzed open and John stepped through, tugging Sherlock along by his coat sleeve.

They were greeted by Greg who took their coats and led them to the dining room where the table had been festively set and where Mycroft was busy lighting the candles.  Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed.

“Look at you, all domestic and Christmassy. If only Mummy could see that, it would make her so happy.”

Mycroft straightened and smiled, unperturbed by his brother’s mocking.

“And a very good evening to you too, Sherlock. I believe Mummy is currently enjoying a cruise on board the Queen Mary 2, to boldly go, well, you know.”

Sherlock gave an unbelieving snort.

“A cruise? Mummy? She’s never been away over Christmas. Why would she do that?”

“Why shouldn’t she? The last Christmases weren’t particularly joyous events. Remember being gone and supposedly dead? Maybe she, too, wanted to get away for a while? Now,” he gestured towards the table, “please sit. Mrs Jennings has given her all to prepare a nice dinner, and we should not disappoint her.”

John had followed Greg into the kitchen to help serve the food.

“Do you think they’ll behave?” he whispered. “Sherlock seemed alright when we left but you never know what happens when these two enter each other’s orbit.”

Greg shrugged. “Myc’s relaxed enough. I made sure there’s no tension left in his body.” He winked and flashed a naughty grin.

John burst out laughing. “Eww Greg, no details please!” He winked back. “But you know what, I tried the same with Sherlock. Let’s see if our magic worked on the Holmeses.” He nudged him. “Nice ring, by the way. Anything I need to know before Sherlock picks up on it?”

“No happy announcement tonight, no.” Greg twirled the deceptively simple golden band with thumb and pinkie. “That’s just for us. Mycroft wanted to replace Matthew’s ring with mine, ‘s all. And I’m actually thrilled to be wearing his.” He blushed a little.

“Good.” John placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder, squeezing it. “I’m glad, Greg, really, I am. You look happy, both of you.”  They smiled at each other, both knowing what being Bonded to a Holmes entailed.

They picked up the bowls, carefully carried them into the dining room and set them on the hot plates.  John smiled expectantly at the food, looking forward to actually being able to enjoy his dinner without having to stuff himself quickly, just in case Sherlock got one of his ideas into his mind and forced him to jump up in the middle of dinner.

A butter lettuce salad with gorgonzola and pear dressing was followed by roast prime rib of beef, mashed potatoes, roasted red onions with balsamic and honey and stringed beans.  Sherlock glanced at the Bordeaux label and raised an eyebrow at Mycroft who chose not to comment.  Dessert consisted of chocolate cherry trifles and lemon squares, and both John and Greg leaned back, sighing contentedly.  Even Sherlock had eaten, and cleaned his plate, too. 

“Maureen is a star,” said Greg dreamily. “I will put in for her to be made a saint.”

“She puts in extra effort whenever her favourite policeman is concerned,” Mycroft replied, with just a touch of good-natured jealousy in his voice.  In fact, Mrs Jennings having taken Greg under her wings was the source of endless teasing between them.  There always were mysterious apparitions of spare portions as soon as Greg uttered a word fragment remotely resembling “hungry” or “haven’t eaten yet”, not to mention coffee or tea manifesting out of nowhere.  If his metabolism weren’t that of a Were, his weight would have skyrocketed near obesity.

They cleaned the table and stored everything as per Mrs Jennings orders – “you do not disobey your cook and housekeeper”, Mycroft observed –, took their wine glasses and the bottle of Banyul and retreated into the sitting room where they sat down and chatted for a while, idly talking about their plans for the holidays (“Cornwall,” Greg stated with a firm voice).  At one point Sherlock started as if to make a scoffing remark about the fact that his brother and Greg were wearing identical rings, something he had noticed immediately upon entering the dining room but had chosen not to comment on during dinner, for once preferring masterfully prepared food over verbal warfare.  A look of warning out of John’s eyes made him change his mind, however, and then Mycroft cleared his throat and looked at Sherlock.

“Right, brother dear. I believe it’s time to pay our respects to Herr van Beethoven.”

Sherlock shot up from his armchair. “Ready when you are.”

He took his violin out of its case and lovingly tuned it while Mycroft sat down at the piano.  As soon as the Rondo’s first notes started dancing through the air, Sherlock lifted the bow and his violin’s sweet song joined the piano’s playfully bubbling tones.  Neither man needed music sheets as the piece was safely stored in their respective mind palaces, eidetic memories easily retrieving the needed information. 

Sherlock’s gaze caught Mycroft’s, and the brothers looked at each other throughout the piece, unwavering, eyes firmly locked.  As their fraternal Bond finally slipped back into place after years of animosity, Sherlock’s eyes began glowing a warm green and Mycroft’s shone a soft blue in reply. 

There would be bickering, of course there would be, there would be drama and patronising and huffing and puffing and raised eyebrows, and “you’re upsetting Mummy” would remain their mantra, but when the Holmes brothers smiled at each other, Greg and John exchanged a look. 

For now, there was peace. 

 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My humble apologies for the fluffy-sweet ending. Having two younger brothers myself, the idea of brothers being completely at odds with each other causes me pain. Mycroft and Sherlock will certainly not go and pick flowers together, but I can't stand the idea of them being arch enemies.  
> That's just me, however, and if your headcanon is different, it's all fine. It's a crazy fandom, this is, and all is possible :-)
> 
> I might pay the British Government and his silver Fox another visit, but this one is over. (Ideas, anyone?)
> 
> Thanks to all of you from the bottom of my heart - for your kind words, for your encouragement, for taking the time to read and comment. You have no idea how much it means to me!!!
> 
> For those who are interested, here's the music:  
> that kind of piano music lured the Fox into Mycroft's garden: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H96a3FQCKpw (Johann Nepomuk Hummel, 24 Preludes for Piano, Op. 67),  
> that's the piece Mycroft and Sherlock play at the end of the story: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-o5ku4SsRLk (Ludwig van Beethoven, Rondo for Violin and Piano, WoO 41)


End file.
